one moment do you come face to face with life; that is in the moment
when you die, leaving the other puppets to be dressed in black and
make believe to cry."

It was a favourite subject of denunciation with him, the artificiality
of us all.

"Little doll," he had once called me, and I had resented the term.

"That's all you are, little Paul," he had persisted, "a good little
hard-working doll, that does what it's made to do, and thinks what
it's made to think. We are all dolls. Your father is a
gallant-hearted, soft-headed little doll; your mother the sweetest and
primmest of dolls. And I'm a silly, dissatisfied doll that longs to
be a man, but hasn't the pluck. We are only dolls, little Paul."

"He's a trifle--a trifle whimsical on some subjects," explained my
father, on my repeating this conversation.

"There are a certain class of men," explained my mother--"you will
meet with them more as you grow up--who talk for talking's sake. They
don't know what they mean. And nobody else does either."

"But what would you have?" argued Dr. Florret, "that every man should
do that which is right in his own eyes?"

"Far better than, like the old man in the fable, he should do what
every other fool thinks right," retorted Washburn. "The other day I
called to see whether a patient of mine was still alive or not. His
wife was washing clothes in the front room. 'How's your husband?' I