“That circumstance may serve as an excuse, but it does not constitute a reason.”

“Not a reason!  Is the most abject poverty a reason for throwing away the daily crust?  My self is all I have.  Shall I let it perish when an effort may preserve it from destruction?  On the one side of the line stands Keyork Arabian, on the other floats the shadow of an annihilation, which threatens to swallow up Keyork’s self, while leaving all that he has borrowed of life to be enjoyed, or wasted by others.  Could Keyork be expected to hesitate, so long as he may hope to remain in possession of that inestimable treasure, his own individuality, which is his only means for enjoying all that is not his, but borrowed?”

“So soon as you speak of enjoyment, argument ceases,” answered the Wanderer.

“You are wrong, as usual,” returned the other.  “It is the other way.  Enjoyment is the universal solvent of all arguments.  No reason can resist its mordant action.  It will dissolve any philosophy not founded upon it and modelled out of its substance, as Aqua Regia will dissolve all metals, even to gold itself.  Enjoyment?  Enjoyment is the protest of reality against the tyranny of fiction.”

The little man stopped short in his walk, striking his heavy stick sharply upon the pavement and looking up at his companion, very much as a man of ordinary size looks up at the face of a colossal statue.

“Have wisdom and study led you no farther than that conclusion?”

Keyork’s eyes brightened suddenly, and a peal of laughter, deep and rich, broke from his sturdy breast and rolled long echoes through the dismal lane, musical as a hunting-song heard among great trees in winter.  But his ivory features were not discomposed, though his white beard trembled and waved softly like a snowy veil blown about by the wind.

“If wisdom can teach how to prolong the lease, what study can be compared with that of which the results may beautify the dwelling?  What more can any man do for himself than make himself happy?  The very question is absurd.  What are you trying to do for yourself at the present moment?  Is it for the sake of improving the physical condition or of promoting the moral case of mankind at large that you are dragging me through the slums and byways and alleys of the gloomiest city on this side of eternal perdition?  It is certainly not for my welfare that you are sacrificing yourself.  You admit that you are pursuing an idea.  Perhaps you are in search of some new and curious form of mildew, and when you have found it—­or something else—­you will name your discovery Fungus Pragensis, or Cryptogamus minor Errantis—­’the Wanderer’s toadstool.’  But I know you of old, my good friend.  The idea you pursue is not an idea at all, but that specimen of the genus homo known as ‘woman,’ species ‘lady,’ variety ‘true love,’ vulgar designation ‘sweetheart.’”

The Wanderer stared coldly at his companion.