queer things of life that you saw a person every day for months and were so intimate with him that you could not imagine existence without him; then separation came, and everything went on in the same way, and the companion who had seemed essential proved unnecessary.  Your life proceeded and you did not even miss him.  Philip thought of those early days in Heidelberg when Hayward, capable of great things, had been full of enthusiasm for the future, and how, little by little, achieving nothing, he had resigned himself to failure.  Now he was dead.  His death had been as futile as his life.  He died ingloriously, of a stupid disease, failing once more, even at the end, to accomplish anything.  It was just the same now as if he had never lived.

Philip asked himself desperately what was the use of living at all.  It all seemed inane.  It was the same with Cronshaw:  it was quite unimportant that he had lived; he was dead and forgotten, his book of poems sold in remainder by second-hand booksellers; his life seemed to have served nothing except to give a pushing journalist occasion to write an article in a review.  And Philip cried out in his soul: 

“What is the use of it?”

The effort was so incommensurate with the result.  The bright hopes of youth had to be paid for at such a bitter price of disillusionment.  Pain and disease and unhappiness weighed down the scale so heavily.  What did it all mean?  He thought of his own life, the high hopes with which he had entered upon it, the limitations which his body forced upon him, his friendlessness, and the lack of affection which had surrounded his youth.  He did not know that he had ever done anything but what seemed best to do, and what a cropper he had come!  Other men, with no more advantages than he, succeeded, and others again, with many more, failed.  It seemed pure chance.  The rain fell alike upon the just and upon the unjust, and for nothing was there a why and a wherefore.

Thinking of Cronshaw, Philip remembered the Persian rug which he had given him, telling him that it offered an answer to his question upon the meaning of life; and suddenly the answer occurred to him:  he chuckled:  now that he had it, it was like one of the puzzles which you worry over till you are shown the solution and then cannot imagine how it could ever have escaped you.  The answer was obvious.  Life had no meaning.  On the earth, satellite of a star speeding through space, living things had arisen under the influence of conditions which were part of the planet’s history; and as there had been a beginning of life upon it so, under the influence of other conditions, there would be an end:  man, no more significant than other forms of life, had come not as the climax of creation but as a physical reaction to the environment.  Philip remembered the story of the Eastern King who, desiring to know the history of man, was brought by a sage five hundred volumes; busy with affairs of