II.—A Darling of the Gods
I see by the papers, with deep concern, that my friend X has been run over by a motor-bus and killed, at the age of only thirty-eight. I wish I could find some one who helped to pick him up, just to see if he said anything about his end: because——
But I will tell you. His foible was to believe that everything that happened was for the best—for himself. Not for mankind; he had none of the great Dr. Pangloss’s satisfaction that everything that is is right, that this is the best of all possible worlds. None at all. But he was persuaded that his own fortunes were being vigilantly and tirelessly watched by tutelary powers—that he was, in short, a pet of Fate.
And in this creed he had grown very ingenious. I remember once hurrying with him to catch a train, which, he said, he must not lose at any cost. Well, after seriously injuring ourselves—or at least myself—by running with our heavy bags, we lost it.
“Never mind,” he said calmly, “I was evidently intended not to catch it.”
“Then why on earth did you drag me along at that infernal pace?” I asked.
“Oh, well,” he said, “one has to try; one does not know what the stars’ game is.”
“What do you think it is?” I inquired coldly.
“I expect the train will meet with an accident; if so, we are well out of it.”
I took the trouble to find out, when we did at last reach the London station, if that train had come safely in.