the soul, if it be true that by following certain rules we get to
heaven. If it be true! Evelyn's thoughts paused, for a doubt had
entered into her mind--the old familiar doubt, from which no one can
separate herself or himself, from which even the saints could not
escape. Are they not always telling of the suffering doubt caused
them? And following this doubt, which prayers can never wholly
stifle, the old original pain enters the heart. We are only here for
a little while, and the words lose nothing of their original
freshness by repetition; and, in order to drink the anguish to its
dregs, Evelyn elaborated the words, reminding herself that time is
growing shorter every year, even the years are growing shorter.

"The space is very little between me and the grave."

Some celebrated words from a celebrated poet, calling attention to
the brevity of life, came into her mind, and she repeated them again
and again, enjoying their bitterness. We like to meditate on death;
even the libertine derives satisfaction from such meditation, and
poets are remembered by their powers of expressing our great sorrow
in stinging terms. "Our lives are not more intense than our dreams,"
Evelyn thought; "and yet our only reason for believing life to be
reality is its intensity. Looked at from the outside, what is it but
a little vanishing dust? Millions have preceded that old woman into
the earth, millions shall follow her. I shall be in the earth too--in
how many years? In a few months perhaps, in a few weeks perhaps.
Possibly within the next few days I may hear how long I may expect to
live, for what is more common than to wake with a pain, and on
consulting a doctor to see a grave look come into his face, and to
hear him tell of some mortal disease beyond his knife's reach? Words
come reluctantly to one's tongue. "How long have I to live?" "About a
year, about six months; I cannot say for certain."

Doctors are answering men and women in these terms every day, and
Evelyn thought of some celebrated sayings that life's mutability has
inspired. She remembered some from the Bible, and some from
Shakespeare; and those she remembered from Fitzgerald, from his "Omar
Khayyam," took her back to the afternoon she spent with Owen by the
Serpentine, to the very day when he gave her the poem to read,
thinking to overcome her scruples with literature.

"There were no scruples in me then. My own business, 'The Ring,' is
full of the pagan story of l