“By Jove!” said Maurice suddenly, thrusting his hand into his pocket, “that reminds me!” He pulled out the dead body of Thomas, and laid it carefully on the table.
“There,” he said, “what do you think of that?”
“It’s perfectly horrible,” said Marjorie. “Where did you get it? What did you do it for?”
“I strolled on to the common after tennis for a smoke, and I happened to find it. I used to collect these things when I was at school. I suppose I picked it up from force of habit, but I’m sure I don’t know. You ought not to call it horrible, you know. It’s really a fine specimen of its kind.”
Marjorie looked at it more closely, turning it over with the end of a penholder.
“Do you remember saying just now,” said Maurice, “that things which were different in one way were generally different in another? Beetles are different from us; they can’t do the same things; we despise them; they haven’t as good a time. Perhaps they can do things we don’t know anything about; perhaps they despise us; perhaps they are going to have a better time in some other world. What are all the stars for?”
Marjorie wrinkled her brows, and kicked one tiny slipper half off.
“I almost think I see what you mean——”
“I am not at all sure I meant anything,” said Maurice. “It was just a suggestion.”
Marjorie had thrown down the penholder, and taken the body of Thomas in her hand.