to walk with me. I was very glad. On the way out, he stopped in the
hall and knocked half the things off the pegs.

"Beloved aunt!" he cried, "there used to be a hat somewhere!"

I assured him that he need not discomfort himself for my sake, and
he bounded forth bareheaded, with a yell of exultation. On the road
we had a long and somewhat warm discussion on suicide, which was
started by an essay of Montaigne's he happened to be reading. Every
now and again he pulled the book from his pocket and read me
extracts, until it was too dark to see; even then he once struck a
match to find a passage.

For the sake of argument we occasionally took opposite sides, but,
in fact, we were both agreed upon the principal point; namely, that
although man enters the world against his will, he may surely choose
the time and the manner of his exit. That this is every one's right
we both believe, yet believe, also, that the right should be
sparingly used. For although suicide might almost be considered an
act of duty on the part of those suffering from incurable disease,
mental or physical, most of us, however useless and superfluous we
may at times believe ourselves to be, have, willy-nilly, the fate of
some fellow-creature bound up with our own; and it is surely an act
of unpardonable cowardice to make our escape from a world of
difficulties, leaving others to bear the burden of our faults.

But, really, I must put an end to this letter; I never wrote such a
long one in my life, not even I, not even to you. My friend left me
as we approached Graysmill, saying that he dared not set foot on the
confines of respectability.