“Art!” said the young man, with a harsh laugh. “Art! The opium dreams of drugged, idle people!”
The married sister interposed, laughing.
“Don’t be so serious, Lance! Claudine, dear, you’re not attending to us!”
For Claudine was sitting at the head of the table, dispensing tea and coffee. The sparkling brightness had gone from her face, she looked pale and a little weary, but lovelier than ever. Vincelle was now disposed to admire her more seriously; she had poise and dignity, and she could talk in a way to startle him. She had something to say even on the topic of Pre-historic Man; she had ideas which he couldn’t have had.
“Life lost its meaning,” Lance went on, “when it ceased to be a struggle.”
“For Heaven’s sake, when did it cease to be a struggle?” said Pendleton. “They forgot to tell me. I thought it was still pretty hard to get a foothold.”
Lance ignored him.
“Man waged a magnificent and heroic struggle with Nature,” he said, “but was defeated.”
“But was it really so heroic, Lance? It was an involuntary struggle, it hadn’t any aim. It seems to me that now, when we’re conscious, and can really try to improve—”
“We don’t. We can’t. It’s too late. We’re in the final stage of evolution. We went the wrong way.”