“Well,” said I, “that will do tomorrow. I’ve been thinking we might make the brushwood into a pyre and burn his body⁠—and those other things. Then what will happen with the beast folk?”

“ I don’t know. I suppose those that were made of beasts of prey will make silly asses of themselves sooner or later. We can’t massacre the lot⁠—can we? I suppose that’s what your humanity would suggest? But they’ll change. They are sure to change.”

He talked thus inconclusively until at last I felt my temper going.

“Damnation!” he exclaimed at some petulance of mine; “can’t you see I’m in a worse hole than you are?” And he got up, and went for the brandy. “Drink!” he said returning, “you logic-chopping, chalky-faced saint of an atheist, drink!”