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"
"My dear Professor," I replied, "a brave man tastes of death but once."
He was much delighted at the sentiment, which he took to be original.
"I shall quote it," said he, "whenever my honour or my courage is called
into question. It is not often that a man has the temerity to do so. Can
I have the honour of offering you a whisky and soda?"
"Have we time?" I asked.
"We have time," he said, solemnly consulting his watch. "Things will
ripen."
"Then," said I, "I shall have much pleasure in drinking to their
maturity."
While we were drinking our whisky and soda he talked volubly of many
things--his travels, his cats, his own incredible importance in
the cosmos. And as he sat there vapouring about the pathetically
insignificant he looked more like Napoleon III than ever. His eyes had
the same mournful depths, his features the same stamp of fatality. Each
man has his gigantic combinations--perhaps equally important in the eyes
of the High Gods. I was filled with an immense pity for Napoleon III.


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