of either. I
would risk it, for the sake of that chance of rich, full-blown
Non-Entity. Oh, think of it!--after loneliness in the dark!--loneliness
that once was full of life...."

"But suppose the other chance--how then?"

"Suppose I worked out as a disembodied spirit--and I quite admit it's as
likely as not, neither more nor less--it does not necessarily follow
that Malignity against Freethinkers is the only attribute of the
Creator. When one contemplates the extraordinary variety and magnitude
of His achievements, one is tempted to imagine that He occasionally
rises above mere personal feeling. It certainly does seem to me that
damning inoffensive Suicides would be an unwarrantable abuse of
Omnipotence. The fact is, I have a much better opinion of the Most High
than many of His admirers."

"But, nonsense apart.... Yes--it _is_ nonsense!... do you mean that you
would kill yourself about me?"

"Yes."

"I'm so glad, because I shan't give you the chance. But dear, silly
man--dearest, silliest man!--I do wish you would give me up that bottle.
I'll promise to give it back if ever I want to jilt you. Honour bright!"

"I dare say. With the good, efficacious poison emptied away; and tea, or
rum, or Rowland's Macassar instead! I cannot conceive a more equivocal
position than that of a suicide who has taken the wrong poison under the
impression that he has launched himself into Eternity."

"Oh no--I could never do that! It would be such a cruel hoax. Now,
dearest love, do let me have that bottle to take care of. Indeed, if
ever I jilt you, you shall have it back. Engaged girls--honourable
ones!--always give presents back on jilting. _Do_ let me have it!"

Adrian laughed at her earnestness. "_I'm_ not going to poison myself,"
said he. "Unless you jilt me! So it comes to exactly the same thing,
either way. There--be easy now! I've promised. Besides, the Warroo or
Guarano Indian who gave it me--out on the Essequibo; it was when I went
to Demerara--told me it wouldn't keep. So I wouldn't trust it. Much
better stick to nice, wholesome, old-fashioned Prussic Acid." He had
quite dropped his serious tone, and resumed his incorrigible levity.

"Did you really have it from a wild Indian? Where did he get it? Did he
make it?"

"No--that's the beauty of it. The Warroos of Guiana are great dabs at
making poisons. They make the celebrated Wourali poison, the smallest
quantity of which in a vein always kills. It has never disappo