"There is nothing else to do," gloomily "Life is such a wretched bore
that the only thing to do is to seize what little spice there is in
it, and the spice, alas! will never bear analysis."

"Are you unhappy?" she demanded. Her eyes were still disapproving, but
her voice was a shade less cold.

He smiled, but at the same time he felt a little ashamed of
himself, the weapons were so trite, and it was so easy to manage an
unworldly-wise and romantic girl. There was nothing to do but go on,
however. "No, I am not unhappy, Miss Penrhyn," he said; "that is, not
unhappy in the sense you would mean. I am only tired of life. That is
all--but it is enough."

"But you are very young," she said, innocently. "You cannot yet be
thirty."

He laughed shortly. "I am twenty-eight, Miss Penrhyn--and I am--forty
five. You cannot understand, and it is well you should not. But this
much I can tell you. I was born with a wretched load of _ennui_ on my
spirits, and all things pall after a brief experience. It has been so
since the first hour I can remember. My grandmother used to tell
me that I should wake up some day and find myself a genius, that I
rejoiced in several pointed indications toward that desirable end;
that I had only to wait, and ample compensation for the boredom of
life would come But, alas! I am twenty-eight, and there are no signs
of genius yet. I am merely a commonplace young man pursuing the most
commonplace of lives--but I am not going to bore you by talking about
myself any longer. I never do. I do not know why I do so to-night. But