“You must take your friend as he is. You know what I am, my dear Mortimer. You know how dreadfully susceptible I am to boredom. You know that when I became enough of a man to find myself an embodied conundrum, I bored myself to the last degree by trying to find out what I meant. You know that at length I gave it up, and declined to guess any more. Then how can I possibly give you the answer that I have not discovered? The old nursery form runs, ‘Riddle-me-riddle-me-ree, p’raps you can’t tell me what this may be?’ My reply runs, ‘No. Upon my life, I can’t.’ ”

So much of what was fantastically true to his own knowledge of this utterly careless Eugene, mingled with the answer, that Mortimer could not receive it as a mere evasion. Besides, it was given with an engaging air of openness, and of special exemption of the one friend he valued, from his reckless indifference.

“Come, dear boy!” said Eugene. “Let us try the effect of smoking. If it enlightens me at all on this question, I will impart unreservedly.”