You see, I should still have been engaged to Eleanor Faversham. . . .  But now this somewhat unholy influence is gone from her.  She has lifted me in her strong arms as a mother would lift a brat of ten.  She has patiently suffered my whimsies as if I had been a sick girl.  She has become to me the mere great mothering creature on whom I have depended for custard and the removal of crumbs and creases from under my body, and for support to my tottering footsteps.  The glamour has gone from before my eyes.  I no longer see her invested in her queer splendour. . . .

My invalid peevishness, too, has accentuated my sensitiveness to shades of refinement.  There is about Lola a bluffness, a hardihood of speech, a contempt for the polite word and the pretty conventional turning of a phrase, a lack of reticence in the expression of ideas and feelings, which jar, in spite of my gratitude, on my unstrung nerves.  Her ignorance, too, of a thousand things, a knowledge of which is the birthright of such women as Eleanor Faversham, causes conversational excursions to end in innumerable blind alleys.  I know that she would give her soul to learn.  This she has told me in so many words, and when, in a delicate way, I try to teach her, she listens humbly, pathetically, fixing me with her great, gold-flecked eyes, behind which a deep sadness burns wistfully.  Sometimes when I glance up from my book, I see that her eyes, instead of being bent on hers have been resting long on my face, and they say as clearly as articulate speech:  “Teach me, love me, use me, do what you will with me.  I am yours, your chattel, your thing, till the end of time.”

I lie awake at night and wonder what I shall do with my naked life sheltered only by the garment of this woman’s love, which I have accepted and cannot repay.  I groan aloud when I reflect on the irremediable mess, hash, bungle I have made of things.  Did ever sick man wake up to such a hopeless welter?  Can you be surprised that I regarded it with dismay?  Of course, there is a simple way out of it, and into the shadowy world which I contemplated so long, at first with mocking indifference and then with eager longing.  A gentleman called Cato once took it, with considerable aplomb.  The means are to my hand.  In my drawer lies the revolver with which the excellent Colonel Bunnion (long since departed from Mustapha Superieur) armed me against the banditti of Algiers, and which I forgot to return to him.  I could empty one or more of the six chambers into my person and that would be the end.  But I don’t think history records the suicide of any humorist, however dismal.  He knows too well the tricks of the Arch-Jester’s game.  Very likely I should merely blow away half my head, and Destiny would give my good doctor another chance of achieving immortal fame by glueing it on again.  No, I cannot think seriously of suicide by violent means.  Of course, I might follow the example of one Antonios Polemon, a later Greek sophist, who suffered so dreadfully from gout that he buried himself alive in the tomb of his ancestors and starved to death.  We have a family vault in Highgate Cemetery, of which I possess the key. . . .  No, I should be bored and cold, and the coffins would get on my nerves; and besides, there is something suggestive of smug villadom in the idea of going to die at Highgate.