"Then the preacher preached of Sin ... fair of flower and bitter of fruit."—Juliana Horatia Ewing.
"To me the idea of slaving for a life-time in order to die rich is a pitiful sort of insanity. That's the Italian in me, I suppose. I would think it wiser to drink—drink deep and long and gloriously—and die of it—die in a ditch if necessary! Then I would have lived some sort of life, anyway, and enjoyed it after my fashion. But I'm not going to live or die that way. I'm going to take everything in life that's worth having, and I'm going to enjoy—and enjoy—and enjoy! The devil, himself, can't cheat me of it. I've long arrears of happiness to make up and by God——I'll make them!" The speaker broke off, coughing horribly; a gleam of intense rage shone in his great, wild eyes and his thin nostrils quivered, furiously. Poor slight earth-worm! caught in the whirlwind of Destiny and tossed hither and thither! compelled to falsify his weak boasts even as he uttered them! The man who sat opposite, smoking and lounging in the dim light of the studio, withdrew his gaze with an effort from his visitor's frail form and frenzied face; there seemed something indecent in gazing thus openly at the contortions of a naked soul.
"Have a little hot Scotch for the cough," he suggested, reluctantly. "What's the use? I may just as well give it to him, here," he added to himself. "The boy's trebly doomed and a drop more or less isn't going to make any difference either way." He busied himself with a spirit lamp and glasses and soon his visitor was gulping down the proffered draught, greedily.
"That's good!" he exclaimed. "That puts life in me. I feel as if I could write something now—something worth while."
"Something unfit for reading, I suppose you mean," returned his host, cheerfully.
The boy laughed easily and settled back among the cushions of his easy chair with panther-like grace.
"Not a bit of it," he answered, gaily. "I only write them after gin. The best thing I ever did was gin—'Sin's Lure.' You read it?"
"I did."
"Strong, wasn't it?"
"Strong, yes. So is a—so are various other things strong. Just the sort of thing a diseased, vice-racked, dissipated young—genius—like you might be expected to produce. What bothers me now is your prose. Anything more uncharacteristic"—