Then the voice that had been counselling him so long, drew strangely near, and said “Die.”  The voice sounded strangely clear in the void of a great brain silence.  Earth ties seemed severed, and then quite naturally, without any effort of mind, he went up-stairs to shoot himself.  No effort of mind was needed, it seemed the natural and inevitable course for him to take, and he was only conscious of a certain faint surprise that he had so long delayed.  There was no trace of fear or doubt in him; he walked up the long staircase without embarrassment, and in a heavenly calm of mind hastened to put his project into execution, dreading the passing of the happiness of his present mood, and the return of the fever of living.  He stopped for a moment to see himself in the glass, and looking into the depths of his eyes, he strove to read there the story of his triumph over life.  Then seeing the disorder of his dress, and the untidy appearance of his unshaven chin, he smiled, conceiving in that moment that it would be consistent to make as careful a toilette to meet death, as he had often done to meet a love.

He was anxious for the world to know that it was not after a drunken bout he had shot himself, but after philosophic deliberation and judicious reflection.  And he could far better affirm his state of mind by his dress, than by any written words.  Lying on the bed, cleanly shaved, wearing evening clothes, silk socks, patent leather shoes and white gloves?  No, that would be vulgar, and all taint of vulgarity must be avoided.  He must represent, even in a state of symbol, the young man, who having drunk of life to repletion, and finding that he can but repeat the same love draughts, says:  “It is far too great a bore, I will go,” and he goes out of life just as if he were leaving a fashionable soiree in Piccadilly.  That was exactly the impression he wished to convey.  Yes, he would have out his opera hat and light overcoat.  He was a little uncertain whether he should die in the night, or wait for the day, and considering the question, he lathered his face.  “Curious it is,” he thought, “I never was so happy, so joyous in life before....  These walls, all that I see, will in a few minutes disappear; it is this I, this Ego, which creates them; in destroying myself I destroy the world....  How hard this beard is!  I never can shave properly without hot water!”

As he pulled on a pair of silk socks and tied his white necktie he thought of Lady Helen.  Going to bed was not a bad notion—­particularly for a woman, and a woman in love, but it would be ridiculous for a man.  He looked at himself again in the long glass in the door of his carved mahogany wardrobe, and was pleased to see that, although a little jaded and worn, he was still handsome.  Having brushed his hair carefully, he looked out the revolver; he did not remember exactly where he had put it, and in turning out his drawers he came upon a bundle of old letters.  They were mostly from Frank and Lizzie,