“Ah,” sighed Boswell, “that is one of the things about Hades that destroys all the charm of life there. We are but shades.”
“Granted,” said I, “but your garments can—”
“Our garments can't,” said Boswell. “Through all eternity we shades of our former selves are doomed to wear the shadows of our former clothes.”
“Then what the devil does a poor dress-maker do who goes to Hades?” I cried.
“She makes over the things she made before,” said Boswell. “That's why, my dear fellow,” the biographer added, becoming confidential—“that's why some people confound Hades with—ah—the other place, don't you know.”
“Still, there's golf!” I said; “and that's a panacea for all ills. YOU enjoy it, don't you?”
“Me?” cried Boswell. “Me enjoy it? Not on all the lives in Christendom. It is the direst drudgery for me.”
“Drudgery?” I said. “Bah! Nonsense, Boswell!”
“You forget—” he began.
“Forget? It must be you who forget, if you call golf drudgery.”