"Why should I care? What is it to me whether you like me or whether
you hate me? I know very well that three months after my death every
one will have ceased to think of me; three months hence it will be
the same as if I had never lived at all."

"You are well off; you have talent and beauty. What more do you
want?"

"The world cannot give me happiness. You find happiness in your own
heart, not in worldly possessions.... I am a pessimist. I recognize
that life is a miserable thing--not only a miserable thing, but a
useless thing. We can do no good; there is no good to be done; and
life has no advantage except that we can put it off when we will.
Schopenhauer is wrong when he asserts that suicide is no solution of
the evil; so far as the individual is concerned suicide is a perfect
solution, and were the race to cease to-morrow, nature would
instantly choose another type and force it into consciousness. Until
this earth resolves itself to ice or cinder, matter will never cease
to know itself."

"My dear," said Lewis Seymour, who entered the room at that moment,
"I am feeling very tired; I think I shall go home, but do not mind
me. I will take a hansom--you can have your brougham. You will not
mind coming home alone?"

"No, I shall not mind. But do you take the brougham. It will be
better so. It will save the horse from cold; I'll come back in a
hansom."