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know that I am poor and live in an attic with a vulgar trol-
lop who deceives me with hair-dressers and garcons de cafe;
I translate wretched books for the British public, and write
articles upon contemptible pictures which deserve not even
to be abused. But pray tell me what is the meaning of life?’
‘I say, that’s rather a difficult question. Won’t you give the
answer yourself?’
‘No, because it’s worthless unless you yourself discover it.
But what do you suppose you are in the world for?’
Philip had never asked himself, and he thought for a mo-
ment before replying.
‘Oh, I don’t know: I suppose to do one’s duty, and make
the best possible use of one’s faculties, and avoid hurting
other people.’
‘In short, to do unto others as you would they should do
unto you?’
‘I suppose so.’
‘Christianity.’
‘No, it isn’t,’ said Philip indignantly. ‘It has nothing to do
with Christianity. It’s just abstract morality.’
‘But there’s no such thing as abstract morality.’
‘In that case, supposing under the influence of liquor you
left your purse behind when you leave here and I picked it
up, why do you imagine that I should return it to you? It’s
not the fear of the police.’
‘It’s the dread of hell if you sin and the hope of Heaven if
you are virtuous.’
‘But I believe in neither.’
‘That may be. Neither did Kant when he devised the Cat-