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tion of it.
‘Thank God, I’m free from all that now,’ he thought.
And yet even as he said it he was not quite sure whether
he spoke sincerely. When he was under the influence of pas-
sion he had felt a singular vigour, and his mind had worked
with unwonted force. He was more alive, there was an ex-
citement in sheer being, an eager vehemence of soul, which
made life now a trifle dull. For all the misery he had en-
dured there was a compensation in that sense of rushing,
overwhelming existence.
But Philip’s unlucky words engaged him in a discussion
on the freedom of the will, and Macalister, with his well-
stored memory, brought out argument after argument. He
had a mind that delighted in dialectics, and he forced Phil-
ip to contradict himself; he pushed him into corners from
which he could only escape by damaging concessions; he
tripped him up with logic and battered him with authori-
ties.
At last Philip said:
‘Well, I can’t say anything about other people. I can only
speak for myself. The illusion of free will is so strong in my
mind that I can’t get away from it, but I believe it is only
an illusion. But it is an illusion which is one of the stron-
gest motives of my actions. Before I do anything I feel that
I have choice, and that influences what I do; but afterwards,
when the thing is done, I believe that it was inevitable from
all eternity.’
‘What do you deduce from that?’ asked Hayward.
‘Why, merely the futility of regret. It’s no good crying

Of Human Bondage