It is probable that the indirect influences to which we have been subjected before birth outweigh the few direct influences received by contagion with present life.  But the direct influences, slight as they may be, are worth considering, they being the only ones of which we have any exact knowledge, even if in so doing we exaggerate them; and in striving to arrive at a just estimation of the forces that had brought about his present mind, Mike was in the habit of giving prominence to the thought of the demoralizing influence of the introduction of Eastern pessimism into a distinctly Western nature.  He remembered very well indeed the shock he had received when he had heard John say for the first time that it was better that human life should cease.

“For man’s history, what is it but the history of crime?  Man’s life, what is it but a disgraceful episode in the life of one of the meanest of the planets?  Let us be thankful that time shall obliterate the abominable, and that once again the world shall roll pure through the silence of the universe.”

So John had once spoken, creating consternation in Mike’s soul, casting poison upon it.  But John had buried himself in Catholicism for refuge from this awful creed, leaving Mike to perish in it.  Then Mike wondered if he should have lived and died a simple, honourable, God-fearing man, if he had not been taken out of the life he was born in, if he had married in Ireland, for instance, and driven cattle to market, as did his ancestors.

One day hearing the organ singing a sweet anthem, he stayed to listen.  It being midsummer, the doors of the church were open, the window was in his view, and the congregation came streaming out into the sunshine of the courts, some straying hither and thither, taking note of the various monuments.  In such occupation he spoke to one whom he recognized at once as a respectable shop-girl.  He took her out to dinner, dazzled and delighted her with a present of jewelry, enchanted her with assurances of his love.  But when her manner insinuated an inclination to yield, he lost interest, and wrote saying he was forced to leave town.  Soon after, he wrote to a certain actress proposing to write a play for her.  The proposal was not made with a view to deceiving her, but rather in the intention of securing their liaison against caprice, by involving in it various mutual advantages.  For three weeks they saw each other frequently; he wondered if he loved her, he dreamed of investing his talents in her interest, and so rebuilding the falling edifice of his life.

“I could crush an affection out of my heart as easily as I could kill a fly,” she said.

“Ah!” he said, “my heart is as empty as a desert, and no affection shall enter there again.”

An appointment was made to go out to supper, but he wrote saying he was leaving town to be married.  Nor was his letter a lie.  After long hesitations he had decided on this step, and it seemed to him clear that no one would suit him so well as Mrs. Byril.  By marrying an old mistress, he would save himself from all the boredom of a honeymoon.  And sitting in the drawing-room, in the various pauses between numerous licentious stories, they discussed their matrimonial project.