"Then?—oh, then, I'd end it very quickly. I can't bear to have an ugly object in the room with me; do you think I could bear to be one myself? Chloral's painless."
"Yes, and cheap. The idea of suicide appeals to you, then?"
"Not especially," answered the boy, beginning to stir, restlessly. "But one must do something if the worst comes to the worst."
"I wonder, if you feel like that, that you continue to live. Do you really think your life's worth living?"
"No," answered Ricossia, calmly. "Do you think yours is?"
Gerald stopped half-way in an answer, struck by a sudden thought. Was his life worth living? It was a good life as lives go; but if he could exchange it now, to-night, for total oblivion, absolute insurance against future pain, old age, illness, sorrow—would he, or would he not? He hesitated.
"I ask you," pursued Ricossia, quietly, "because, just now, as I leaned back here in your comfortable chair with your fire dancing in my eyes and your good drink warming the very cockles of my heart, I thought of you and, for a moment, envied you. Then I thought of your life. Your tiresome routine of work, exercise, wholesome food, good air, sound sleep—God! how do you stand it? I'd go mad!"
"You think your own life preferable?"
"My life is life of a kind. My cough's a devilish nuisance but I can always purchase oblivion with a few cents—oblivion! Have you ever known what it is to want sleep? No? I thought not. Wait until you have. Then know what it is to want sleep and to get it; to drop off to slumber, lulled with pleasant thoughts, dreams, fancies, and to feel no pain, no bother, nothing but a delicious drowsiness. Of course the waking up is bad—but you don't think of that; if you did, I suppose you'd take a bigger dose once for all."
"I'm not paid to induce you to commit suicide, but, feeling as you do, I wonder what on earth you live for?"