"Which variety of end?" he asked.
"There is only one variety," said Baggin steadily. "There is only one thing in the world that counts, and that is life."
"Not money?" asked the Russian, with a faint, ironical smile.
"Not money," repeated Baggin. "Least of all, money—but life!"
Poltavo arose. He had seen the flutter of a white skirt at the far end of the promenade-deck.
"Life," he said, with soft deliberateness, "is the least of all gifts, my friend. It is of no more consequence than the crystal of snow which is lost in the foul mud beneath our feet, or the drop of dew which is burned up by the ardent rays of the sun." He turned upon his heel.
The American plucked at his sleeve. "Then, what counts?" he demanded hoarsely.
"Nothing!" There was a certain mysticism in the count's gentle smile. "We are bewildered guests. Listen to the words of one of your own great countrymen." He quoted in a musical voice, looking out across the water:
"'I was not asked if I should like to come,
I have not seen my host here since I came,
Or had a word of welcome in his name.
Some say that we shall never see him, and some
That we shall see him elsewhere, and then know
Why we were bid.'
"For myself"—he shrugged his shoulders with an expressive gesture—"it does not matter. I have been well amuse'." He strolled forward.