“Entirely so,” continued Mr. Overgold. “And why, if at all, does Bergsonian illusionism differ from pure nothingness?”
They both paused.
Mr. Overgold had risen. There was great weariness in his manner.
“It saddens one, does it not?” he said.
He had picked up a bundle of Panama two per cent. gold bonds and was looking at them in contempt.
“The emptiness of it all!” he muttered. He extended the bonds to de Vere.
“Do you want them,” he said, “or shall I throw them away?”
“Give them to me,” said de Vere quietly; “they are not worth the throwing.”
“No, no,” said Mr. Overgold, speaking half to himself, as he replaced the bonds in his desk. “It is a burden that I must carry alone. I have no right to ask any one to share it. But come,” he continued, “I fear I am sadly lacking in the duties of international hospitality. I am forgetting what I owe to Anglo-American courtesy. I am neglecting the new obligations of our common Indo-Chinese policy. My motor is at the door. Pray let me take you to my house to lunch.”
De Vere assented readily, telephoned to the Belmont not to keep lunch waiting for him, and in a moment was speeding up the magnificent Riverside Drive towards Mr. Overgold’s home. On the way Mr. Overgold pointed out various objects of interest,—Grant’s tomb, Lincoln’s tomb, Edgar Allan Poe’s grave, the ticket office of the New York Subway, and various other points of historic importance.