hatred, refinement with grossness, disinterestedness with self-seeking.' Do you yourself really believe that, Mr. Ormizon?"
Was it not calculated to set any young author's heart a-palpitating, thus to hear himself quoted verbatim by the loveliest lady of her generation? So it affected Ormizon's, at any rate. She punctuated her inquiry by raising her eyes expectantly to his. At the meeting, a new palpitation swept his bosom, and a blush mounted to his forehead. Whereupon, by the strangest of coincidences, Mademoiselle's damask cheek displayed for an instant a similar red ensign; and simultaneously the two pairs of eyes were dropped upon the table-cloth.
"Er—well," he began, in a matter-of-fact key, returning to her question, "as a general thing, you know, I shouldn't like to be held responsible for the opinions of my characters. But here, in this special case, it isn't a matter of opinion; it's a matter of statistics. I don't see how any one can help believing it. As Rivington says, no end of instances prove it. The physicians' records are full of them. Isn't that so, doctor?"
"Oh, yes; that's so, undoubtedly. But the force of all that is offset by the discoveries that are being made by the Society for Psychical Research. Their experiments have conclusively demonstrated that, while ordinarily the mind is unquestionably subject to the body, under certain conditions the mind becomes absolutely independent of the body, transcending all the limitations of matter, and of time and space. Still, it can't be denied that very frequently, as you say, a physical lesion may result in a radical change of the patient's character and disposition."
"Oh, but that is so horrible!" cried Denise. "It never occurred to me before. But if it is true—oh-h-h! It makes one shudder. But I think your—what would you call it?—not plot, exactly—your idea—your theme—I think that was beautiful. To have him long so ardently to believe in God and immortality; and yet all the time be dragged, forced, further and further, deeper and deeper, into materialism, pessimism, cynicism, and all that; and then, suddenly, forget everything, escape from all his doubts and fears, and find perfect peace and happiness in love. But why—why did you let her die?"
"Well, as I said, I thought under the circumstances her death was inevitable. But then, besides, I wanted him to realize that love isn't enough; that at best it is only a temporary refuge; that it can't permanently fill the place of religion. I wanted him to discover that the same grim, awful, relentless problems were still there, standing where he had left them, outside his lady's chamber, waiting to confront him at his exit. After she died, you know, his old longings, his old doubts and perplexities, hopes and fears, came surging upon him with more tremendous force than ever."
"Yes, I see. But it is dreadfully hard on the reader. You made her so lovely and beautiful; and then to have her die,—oh, it—it was like losing one of one's own friends, almost. I thought I should never stop crying. Oh, I really do not think it is fair to your reader to make your book end badly. Do you, Isabel?"
"Well, I don't know about that," returned the doctor. "That's a question of first principles, and would admit of a good deal of debate.
