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‘How can I regret when what I did was inevitable?’ asked
Cronshaw in return.
‘But that’s fatalism.’
‘The illusion which man has that his will is free is so
deeply rooted that I am ready to accept it. I act as though I
were a free agent. But when an action is performed it is clear
that all the forces of the universe from all eternity conspired
to cause it, and nothing I could do could have prevented it.
It was inevitable. If it was good I can claim no merit; if it
was bad I can accept no censure.’
‘My brain reels,’ said Philip.
‘Have some whiskey,’ returned Cronshaw, passing over
the bottle. ‘There’s nothing like it for clearing the head. You
must expect to be thick-witted if you insist upon drinking
beer.’
Philip shook his head, and Cronshaw proceeded:
‘You’re not a bad fellow, but you won’t drink. Sobriety
disturbs conversation. But when I speak of good and bad...’
Philip saw he was taking up the thread of his discourse, ‘I
speak conventionally. I attach no meaning to those words.
I refuse to make a hierarchy of human actions and ascribe
worthiness to some and ill-repute to others. The terms vice
and virtue have no signification for me. I do not confer
praise or blame: I accept. I am the measure of all things. I
am the centre of the world.’
‘But there are one or two other people in the world,’ ob-
jected Philip.
‘I speak only for myself. I know them only as they limit
my activities. Round each of them too the world turns, and