I believe it would find a way of
saying it; but has John Norton really got any idea so overwhelmingly
new and personal that it would force a way of utterance where none
existed? The Christian creed with its tale of Mary must be of all
creeds most antipathetic to his natural instincts, he nevertheless
accepts it.... If you agitate a pool from different sides you must
stir up mud, and this is what occurs in Norton's brain; it is
agitated equally from different sides, and the result is mud."

Mike looked at Harding inquiringly, for a moment wondered if the
novelist understood him as he seemed to understand Norton.

A knock was heard, and Norton entered. His popularity was visible in
the pleasant smiles and words which greeted him.

"You are just the man we want," cried Frank. "We want to publish one
of your poems in the paper this week."

"I have burnt my poems," he answered, with something more of
sacerdotal tone and gesture than usual.

All the scribblers looked up. "You don't mean to say seriously that
you have burnt your poems?"

"Yes; but I do not care to discuss my reasons. You do not feel as I
do."

"You mean to say that you have burnt _The Last Struggle_--the poem
you told us about the other night?"

"Yes, I felt I could not reconcile its teaching, or I should say the
tendency of its teaching, to my religion. I do not regret--besides, I
had to do it; I felt I was going off my head. I should have gone mad.
I have been through agonies. I could not think. Thought and pain and
trouble were as one in my brain. I heard voices.... I had to do it.
And now a great calm has come. I feel much better."

"You are a curious chap."

Then at the end of a long silence John said, as if he wished to
change the conversation--

"Even though I did burn my pessimistic poem, the world will not go
without one. You are writing a poem on Schopenhauer's philosophy.
It is hard to associate pessimism with you."

"Only because you take the ordinary view of the tendency of
pessimistic teaching," said Mike. "If you want a young and laughing
world, preach Schopenhauer at every street corner; if you want a
sober utilitarian world, preach Comte."

"Doesn't much matter what the world is as long as it is not sober,"
chuckled Platt, the paragraph-writing youth at the bottom of the
table.

"Hold your tongue!" cried Drake, and he lighted another cigarette
preparatory to fixing his whole attention on the paradox that Mike
was about to e