rightly. Nothing is worse than to be grotesque."

"Further," said his mind, "you have started your son on a sinister
career of adventure that may end in calamity. You have ministered to
your daughter's latent frivolity. You have put temptations in the way of
your wife which she cannot withstand. You have developed yourself into a
waster. What is the remedy? Obviously to dispose of your money. But your
ladies would not permit you to do so and they are entitled to be heard
on the point. Moreover, how could you dispose of it? Not in charity,
because you are convinced of the grave social mischievousness of
charity. And not in helping any great social movement, because you are
not silly enough not to know that the lavishing of wealth never really
aids, but most viciously hinders, the proper evolution of a society. And
you cannot save your income and let it accumulate, because if you did
you would once again be tumbling into the grotesque; and you would,
further, be leaving to your successors a legacy of evil which no man is
justified in leaving to his successors. No! Your case is in practice
irremediable. Like the murderer on the scaffold, you are the victim of
circumstances. And not one human being in a million will pity you. You
are a living tragedy which only death can end."

During this disconcerting session Eve had been mysteriously engaged in
the boudoir. She now came into the dark bedroom.

"What?" she softly murmured, hearing Mr. Prohack's restlessness. "Not
asleep, darling?" She bent over him and kissed him and her kiss was even
softer, more soporific, than her voice. "Now do go to sleep."

And Mr. Prohack went to sleep, and his last waking thought was, with the
feel of the kiss on his nose (the poor woman had aimed badly in the