"Why are you miserable, Carey?" said Pierce, as the former buried his
moustache in a tall whisky-and-soda.

"Because I'm alive and don't want to be dead. Reason enough."

"Because you're an unmitigated egoist," rejoined Pierce.

"Yes, I am an egoist. Introduce me to a man who is not, will you?"

"And what about women?"

"Many women are not egoists. But you have been dining with one of the
most finished egoists in London to-night."

"Lady Holme?" said Sir Donald, shifting into the left-hand corner of the
sofa.

"Yes, Viola Holme, once Lady Viola Grantoun; whom I mustn't know any
more."

"I'm not sure that you are right, Carey," said Pierce, rather coldly.

"What!"

"Can a true and perfect egoist be in love?"

"Certainly. Is not even an egoist an animal?"

Pierce's lips tightened for a second, and his right hand strained itself
round his knee, on which it was lying.