“`Oh, don’t tell me that!’ cried Smith with the sudden clairvoyance of mental pain; `don’t tell me I confuse enjoyment of existence with the Will to Live!  That’s German, and German is High Dutch, and High Dutch is Double Dutch.  The thing I saw shining in your eyes when you dangled on that bridge was enjoyment of life and not “the Will to Live.”  What you knew when you sat on that damned gargoyle was that the world, when all is said and done, is a wonderful and beautiful place; I know it, because I knew it at the same minute.  I saw the gray clouds turn pink, and the little gilt clock in the crack between the houses.  It was those things you hated leaving, not Life, whatever that is.  Eames, we’ve been to the brink of death together; won’t you admit I’m right?’

“`Yes,’ said Eames very slowly, `I think you are right.  You shall have a First!’

“`Right!’ cried Smith, springing up reanimated. `I’ve passed with honours, and now let me go and see about being sent down.’

“`You needn’t be sent down,’ said Eames with the quiet confidence of twelve years of intrigue. `Everything with us comes from the man on top to the people just round him:  I am the man on top, and I shall tell the people round me the truth.’

“The massive Mr. Smith rose and went firmly to the window, but he spoke with equal firmness. `I must be sent down,’ he said, `and the people must not be told the truth.’

“`And why not’ asked the other.

“`Because I mean to follow your advice,’ answered the massive youth, `I mean to keep the remaining shots for people in the shameful state you and I were in last night—­I wish we could even plead drunkenness.  I mean to keep those bullets for pessimists—­pills for pale people.  And in this way I want to walk the world like a wonderful surprise—­ to float as idly as the thistledown, and come as silently as the sunrise; not to be expected any more than the thunderbolt, not to be recalled any more than the dying breeze.  I don’t want people to anticipate me as a well-known practical joke.  I want both my gifts to come virgin and violent, the death and the life after death.  I am going to hold a pistol to the head of the Modern Man.  But I shall not use it to kill him—­only to bring him to life.  I begin to see a new meaning in being the skeleton at the feast.’

“`You can scarcely be called a skeleton,’ said Dr. Eames, smiling.

“`That comes of being so much at the feast,’ answered the massive youth. `No skeleton can keep his figure if he is always dining out.  But that is not quite what I meant:  what I mean is that I caught a kind of glimpse of the meaning of death and all that—­the skull and cross-bones, the memento mori.  It isn’t only meant to remind us of a future life, but to remind us of a present life too.  With our weak spirits we should grow old in eternity if we were not kept young by death.  Providence has to cut immortality into lengths for us, as nurses cut the bread and butter into fingers.’