She examined carefully the minute writing engraved upon the glass.
"'Death foils the gods,'" she read. "Is it one of your own wickednesses, Will?" "I don't know. By the way, we might send it to Mrs. Fenton now as a souvenir of the two desirable acquaintances she has lost."
"What a brood of vipers she must think us, Will. I think it is pathetic, probably; but I cannot help being amused. It is rather an odd sensation to find that instead of being the harmless, insignificant body I have always supposed, I am really a hardened and abandoned reprobate."
"Oh, I've always known it, but I did not tell you for fear of destroying your peace of mind."
"I'm afraid," sighed Helen, rather absently, "that—if you don't mind the slang—Arthur has an elephant on his hands."
"Yes," assented the other, "himself."
She laughed musically, toying with the little cut-glass vial.
"How familiarity takes away the dread of any thing," she remarked. "We become accustomed to any thing; and, while I dare say it is the shallowest of sophistry, that ought to be an argument in favor of the theory that vice and fearfulness are alike only strangeness."
"That is rather a sophistical bit of logic; so perfectly so that it ought to be theology. Excuse me, but could you let me have a morsel of cheese."
"There does not seem to be any for you to have," she said, glancing over the table.