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'I read immortality in your eyes,' I answered, dropping the 'sir'- an experiment, for I thought the intimacy of the conversation warranted it. ¡¡¡¡He took no notice. 'By that, I take it, you see something that is alive, but that necessarily does not have to live forever.' ¡¡¡¡'I read more than that,' I continued boldly. ¡¡¡¡'Then you read consciousness. You read the consciousness of life that it is alive; but still, no further away, no endlessness of life.' ¡¡¡¡How clearly he thought, and how well he expressed what he thought! From regarding me curiously, he turned his head and glanced out over the leaden sea to windward. A bleakness came into his eyes, and the lines of his mouth grew severe and harsh. He was evidently in a pessimistic mood. ¡¡¡¡'Then, to what end?' he demanded abruptly, turning back to me. 'If I am immortal, why?' ¡¡¡¡I halted. How could I explain my idealism to this man? How could I put into speech a something felt, a something like the strains of music heard in sleep, a something that convinced, yet transcended utterance?