u object to my company?" asked the tall, lean man, "I mean
until all is over. I, myself, am not quite ready yet for any such
heroical performances."

"Oh, don't think of it," the sculptor ejaculated; notwithstanding, the
tone of his voice indicated that he would not object, that he would even
prefer a traveling companion for the last few hours of his life.

"Well, I'll go with you. Where are you going?"

"To New Haven. It's a nice trip." Morrison carefully brushed his hair
and clothes, there came a flush to his face as he realized how shabby
his clothes really were. The tall, lean man was delicate enough to look
away as if he had not noticed anything.

A few moments later they left the room. Morrison locked the door and
they went out into the street. They did not talk much, merely
commonplace phrases that did not bear upon the subject. Both were
occupied with their own thoughts, and strange thoughts they must have
been. They leisurely strolled to a store of sporting outfits, bought a
revolver and cartridges, had their shoes shined at the next corner, and
slowly wended their way toward the depot. Their actions were almost
mechanical. Suicide is an attack of insanity, a sort of mental plague.
If one has caught the fever, one is doomed. There is no escape from it.
At the same time it is contagious. The literary man was somewhat
infected by it. All his interests in life seemed to be dulled,
obliterated as it were. He could only think the one thought, "Morrison
is going to kill himself. But who knows, he may, after all, turn up next
week with the excuse that he had changed his mind. No, not he!--it was
really too bad!" Morrison, on the other hand, grew quite cheerful. With
him the idea that he would do it, had become so matter-of-fact, that he
ceased to think of it. Nothing could influence him any more. Even if
some vague current of soul activity should revolt at the very last
moment, he was certain that his hand would mechanically perform the
task.

"Only one return ticket," he whispered as he approached the ticket
office. "Oh, I almost forgot," replied his friend.

During the trip they silently sat opposite each other, smoking. Now and
then Morrison pointed out the beautiful sights. He seemed to be familiar
with the scenery. At their arrival in New Haven, at dusk, they at once
adjourned to a hotel and sat down at a table in the bar-room. They began
to talk about art, they discussed commercialism, the lack of
appreci