conclusion that nothing amused him more than metaphysics, but he was not so sure of their efficacy in the affairs of life.  The neat little system which he had formed as the result of his meditations at Blackstable had not been of conspicuous use during his infatuation for Mildred.  He could not be positive that reason was much help in the conduct of life.  It seemed to him that life lived itself.  He remembered very vividly the violence of the emotion which had possessed him and his inability, as if he were tied down to the ground with ropes, to react against it.  He read many wise things in books, but he could only judge from his own experience (he did not know whether he was different from other people); he did not calculate the pros and cons of an action, the benefits which must befall him if he did it, the harm which might result from the omission; but his whole being was urged on irresistibly.  He did not act with a part of himself but altogether.  The power that possessed him seemed to have nothing to do with reason:  all that reason did was to point out the methods of obtaining what his whole soul was striving for.

Macalister reminded him of the Categorical Imperative.

“Act so that every action of yours should be capable of becoming a universal rule of action for all men.”

“That seems to me perfect nonsense,” said Philip.

“You’re a bold man to say that of anything stated by Immanuel Kant,” retorted Macalister.

“Why?  Reverence for what somebody said is a stultifying quality:  there’s a damned sight too much reverence in the world.  Kant thought things not because they were true, but because he was Kant.”

“Well, what is your objection to the Categorical Imperative?” (They talked as though the fate of empires were in the balance.)

“It suggests that one can choose one’s course by an effort of will.  And it suggests that reason is the surest guide.  Why should its dictates be any better than those of passion?  They’re different.  That’s all.”

“You seem to be a contented slave of your passions.”

“A slave because I can’t help myself, but not a contented one,” laughed Philip.

While he spoke he thought of that hot madness which had driven him in pursuit of Mildred.  He remembered how he had chafed against it and how he had felt the degradation of it.

“Thank God, I’m free from all that now,” he thought.

And yet even as he said it he was not quite sure whether he spoke sincerely.  When he was under the influence of passion he had felt a singular vigour, and his mind had worked with unwonted force.  He was more alive, there was an excitement in sheer being, an eager vehemence of soul, which made life now a trifle dull.  For all the misery he had endured there was a compensation in that sense of rushing, overwhelming existence.

But Philip’s unlucky words engaged him in a discussion on the freedom of the will, and Macalister, with his well-stored memory, brought out argument after argument.  He had a mind that delighted in dialectics, and he forced Philip to contradict himself; he pushed him into corners from which he could only escape by damaging concessions; he tripped him up with logic and battered him with authorities.