“But far more than with any ordinary man is it amusing to discuss suicide with a religionist.  The religionist does not know how to defend himself.  If he is a Roman Catholic he says the Church forbids suicide, and that ends the matter; but other churches have no answer to make, for they find in the Old and New Testament not a shred of text to cover themselves with.  From the first page of the Bible to the last there is not a word to say that a man does not hold his life in his hands, and may not end it when he pleases.”

“Why don’t you write an article on suicide?  It would frighten people out of their wits!” said Mike.

“I hope he’ll do nothing of the kind,” said a man who had been listening with bated breath.  “We should have every one committing suicide all around us—­the world would come to an end.”

“And would that matter much?” said Mike, with a scornful laugh.  “You need not be afraid.  No bit of mere scribbling will terminate life; the principle of life is too deeply rooted ever to be uprooted; reason will ever remain powerless to harm it.  Very seldom, if ever, has a man committed suicide for purely intellectual reasons.  It nearly always takes the form of a sudden paroxysm of mind.  The will to live is an almost unassailable fortress, and it will remain impregnable everlastingly.”

The entrance of some men, talking loudly of betting and women, stopped the conversation.  The servants brought forth the card-tables.  Mike played several games of ecarte, cheating openly, braving detection.  He did not care what happened, and almost desired the violent scene that would ensue on his being accused of packing the cards.  But nothing happened, and about one o’clock, having bade the last guest good-night, he returned to the dining-room.  The room in its disorder of fruit and champagne looked like a human being—­Mike thought it looked like himself.  He drank a tumbler of champagne and returned to the drawing-room, his pockets full of the money he had swindled from a young man.  He threw himself on a sofa by the open window and listened to the solitude, terribly punctuated by the clanging of the clocks.  All the roofs were defined on the blue night, and he could hear the sound of water falling.  The trees rose in vague masses indistinguishable, and beyond was the immense brickwork which hugs the shores.  In the river there were strange reflections, and above the river there were blood-red lamps.

“If I were to fling myself from this window! ...  I shouldn’t feel anything; but I should be a shocking sight on the pavement....  Great Scott! this silence is awful, and those whispering trees, and those damned clocks—­another half-hour of life gone.  I shall go mad if something doesn’t happen.”

There came a knock.  Who could it be?  It did not matter, anything was better than silence.  He threw open the door, and a pretty girl, almost a child, bounded into the room, making it ring with her laughter.