till dark, and after dark — an’ for what? A bit of meat, a bit of bread, and, maybe, a bit of jam on the bread. An’ to what end? Is meat an’ bread an’ jam the end of it all, the meaning of life, the goal of existence? Surely the man will die, like a work horse dies, after a life of toil. And what end has been accomplished? Bread an’ meat an’ jam? Is that it? A full belly and shelter from the cold till one’s body drops apart in the dark moldiness of the grave?”

“But, Terrence, you, too, will die,” Dick Forrest retorted.

“But, oh, my glorious life of loafing,” came the instant answer. “The hours with the stars and the flowers, under the green trees with the whisperings of breezes in the grass.