“Man began in bloodshed, in bloodshed he has ended.

“Standing against the last tinge of purple, he gazes for a last time upon the magnificence of a virgin world, seeing the tawny forms of lions in the shadows, watching them drinking at the stream.”

“Adam and Eve at the end of the world,” said Drake.  “A very pretty subject; but I distinctly object to an Eve with black hair.  Eve and golden hair have ever been considered inseparable things.”

“That’s true,” said Platt; “the moment my missis went wrong her hair turned yellow.”

Mike joined in the jocularity, but at the first pause he asked Escott what he thought of his poem.

“I have only one fault to find.  Does not the denouement seem too violent?  Would it not be better if the man were to succeed in escaping from her, and then vexed with scruples to return and find her dead?  What splendid lamentations over the body of the last woman!—­and as the man wanders beneath the waxing and waning moon he hears nature lamenting the last woman.  Mountains, rocks, forests, speak to him only of her.”

“Yes, that would do....  But no—­what am I saying?  Such a conclusion would be in exact contradiction to the philosophy of my poem.  For it is man’s natural and inveterate stupidity (Schopenhauer calls it Will) that forces man to live and continue his species.  Reason is the opposing force.  As time goes on reason becomes more and more complete, until at last it turns upon the will and denies it, like the scorpion, which, if surrounded by a ring of fire, will turn and sting itself to death.  Were the man to escape, and returning find the woman dead, it would not be reason but accident which put an end to this ridiculous world.”

Seeing that attention was withdrawn from him Drake filled his pockets with cigarettes, split a soda with Platt, and seized upon the entrance of half a dozen young men as an excuse for ceasing to write paragraphs.  Although it had only struck six they were all in evening dress.  They were under thirty, and in them elegance and dissipation were equally evident.  Lord Muchross, a clean-shaven Johnnie, walked at the head of the gang, assuming by virtue of his greater volubility a sort of headship.  Dicky, the driver, a stout commoner, spoke of drink; and a languid blonde, Lord Snowdown, leaned against the chimney-piece displaying a thin figure.  The others took seats and laughed whenever Lord Muchross spoke.

“Here we are, old chappie, just in time to drink to the health of the number.  Ha, ha, ha!  What damned libel have you in this week?  Ha, ha!”

“Awful bad head, a heavy day yesterday,” said Dicky—­“drunk blind.”

“Had to put him in a wheelbarrow, wheeled him into a greengrocer’s shop, put a carrot in his mouth, and rang the bell,” shouted Muchross.

“Ha, ha, ha!” shouted the others.

“Had a rippin’ day all the same, didn’t we, old Dicky?  Went up the river in Snowdown’s launch.  Had lunch by Tag’s Island, went as far as Datchet.  There we met Dicky; he tooted us round by Staines.  There we got in a fresh team, galloped all the way to Houndslow.  Laura brought her sister.  Kitty was with us.  Made us die with a story she told us of a fellow she was spoony on.  Had to put him under the bed....  Ghastly joke, dear boy!”