“For what, after all, are we born?” said the Doctor. “Where we die, or when is a trifle, since die we must.  But why we die and how is vital.  It is not only vital to the man that goes—­it is vital to the race.  It is the struggle, it is the fight, which, no matter what form it takes, makes life worth living.  Men struggle for money.  Financiers strangle one another at the Bourse.  People look on and applaud, in spite of themselves.  That is exciting.  It is not uplifting.  But for men just like you and me to march out to face death for an idea, for honor, for duty, that very fact ennobles the race.”

“Ah,” said the Lawyer, “I see.  The Doctor enjoys the drama of life, but he does not enjoy the purely domestic drama.”

“And out of all this,” said the Trained Nurse, in her level voice, “you are leaving the Almighty.  He gave us a world full of beauty, full of work, full of interest, and he gave us capacities to enjoy it, and endowed us with emotions which make it worth while to live and to die.  He gave us simple laws—­they are clear enough—­they mark sharply the line between good and evil.  He left us absolutely free to choose.  And behold what man has made of it!”

“I deny the statement,” said the Doctor.

“That’s easy,” laughed the Journalist.

“I believe,” said the Doctor, impatiently, “that no good comes but through evil.  Read your Bible.”

“I don’t want to read it with your eyes,” replied the Journalist, and marched testily down the path toward the house.

“Well,” snapped the Doctor, “if I read it with yours, I should call on the Almighty to smite this planet with his fires and send us spinning, a flaming brand through space, to annihilation—­the great scheme would seem to me a failure—­but I don’t believe it is.”  And off he marched in the other direction.

The Lawyer shrugged his shoulders, and suppressed, as well as he could, a smile.  The Youngster, leaning his elbows on his knees, recited under his breath: 

    “And as he sat, all suddenly there rolled,
     From where the woman wept upon the sod,
     Satan’s deep voice, ‘Oh Thou unhappy God.’”

“Exactly,” said the Lawyer.

“What’s that?” asked the Violinist.

“Only the last three lines of a great little poem by a little great Irishman named Stephens—­entitled ‘What Satan Said.’”

“After all,” said the Lawyer, “the Doctor is probably right.  It all depends on one’s point of view.”

“And one’s temperament,” said the Violinist.

“And one’s education,” said the Critic.

Just here the Doctor came back,—­and he came back his smiling self.  He made a dash down the path to where the Journalist was evidently sulking, went up behind him, threw an arm over his shoulder, and led him back into the circle.