“Let us eat and drink, for to-morrow we die,” said Farquhar, cynically enjoying his own cynicism.
“And suppose the workings of Causation came and put a stopper on your eating and drinking? If you were brought to grinding poverty, say, or got infected with leprosy, or didn’t marry Dolly Fane?”
“There’s always the ultimate remedy,” said Farquhar, with a shrug.
“Which means, being interpreted?”
“Suicide while of unsound mind: I’d take good care it wasn’t called accidental death. I wonder, now, if they’d give me Christian burial?”
“Not if I was anywhere around, sonny; you may depend on that. So you seriously contemplate suicide as a possible end of your life?”
“Probable, not possible: I keep my revolver loaded. I’ve had that before me ever since I remember.”
“Well, I’ll give you the credit of being consistent; only, don’t you include me among the Christians, for I’m not one. You can put down my inconsistencies to that if you like. If I’d owned a creed, I believe I might have stuck to it—tolerably well.”
“You’re sorry you’ve none?”
“Yes,” said Lucian.