of a paradox," he resumed, "that so harmless a creature as
you, Barstow, should stumble upon so deadly an agent. What do you call
it?"

"I have n't reported it yet. I don't know as I care to have my name
coupled with it in these days of newspaper notoriety--even though it
may be my one bid for fame."

Donaldson drew a package of Durham from his pocket and fumbled around
until he found a loose paper. He deftly rolled a cigarette, his long
fingers moving with the dexterity of a pianist. He smoked a moment in
silence, exhaling the smoke thoughtfully with his eyes towards the
ceiling. The dog, his neck outstretched on Donaldson's knee, blinked
sleepily across the room at his master. The gas, blown about by drafts
from the open window, threw grotesque dancing shadows upon the stained,
worn boards of the floor. Finally Donaldson burst out, ever recurring
to the one subject like a man anxious to defend himself,

"Barstow, I tell you that merely to cling to existence is not an act in
itself either righteous or courageous. If we owe obligations to
individuals we should pay them to the last cent. If we owe obligations
to society, we should pay those, too,--just as we pay our poll tax.
But life is a straight business proposition--pay in some form for what
you get out of it. There are no individuals in my life, as I said.
And what do I owe society? Society does not like what I offer--the
best of me--and will not give me what I want--the best of _it_. Very
well, to the devil with society. Our mutual obligations are cancelled."

Barstow, still busy with his work, shook his head.

"You come out wrong every time," he insisted. "You don't seem to get
at the opportunities there are in just living."

The young man took a long breath.

"So?" he demanded between half closed teeth. "No?" he challenged with
bitter intensity. "You are wrong; I know all that it is possible for
life to mean! That's the trouble. Oh, I know clear to my parched
soul! I was made to live, Barstow,--made to live life to its fullest!
There isn't a bit of it I don't love,--love too well to be content much
longer to play the galley slave in it. To live is to be free. I love
the blue sky above until I ache to madness that I cannot live under it;
I love the trees and grasses, the oceans, the forests and the denizens
of the forests; I love men and women; I love the press of crowds, the
clamor of men; I love silks and beautiful paintings and clean