"Why don't you eat it, then?" said Mr. Hinchcliff, with an inspiration.
"I took it intending to eat it," said the stranger. "Man has fallen. Merely to eat again could scarcely"—
"Knowledge is power," said Mr. Hinchcliff.
"But is it happiness? I am older than you—more than twice as old. Time after time I have held this in my hand, and my heart has failed me at the thought of all that one might know, that terrible lucidity— Suppose suddenly all the world became pitilessly clear?"
"That, I think, would be a great advantage," said Mr. Hinchcliff, "on the whole."
"Suppose you saw into the hearts and minds of everyone about you, into their most secret recesses—people you loved, whose love you valued?"
"You'd soon find out the humbugs," said Mr. Hinchcliff, greatly struck by the idea.
"And worse—to know yourself, bare of your most intimate illusions. To see yourself in your place. All that your lusts and weaknesses prevented your doing. No merciful perspective."
"That might be an excellent thing too. 'Know thyself,' you know."
"You are young," said the stranger.
"If you don't care to eat it, and it bothers you, why don't you throw it away?"
"There again, perhaps, you will not understand me. To me, how could one throw away a thing like that, glowing, wonderful? Once one has it, one is bound. But, on the other hand, to give it away! To give it away to someone who thirsted after know-
