I remember well an incident of one evening.
We had been playing billiards, Grant and I.

He had a table in his house and had taught Jean how to play until she had become a terror, though the Ape had nearly caught up with her in skill, and there was, at this time, a great pretended struggle between them, and we had come up into the library after a hard after-dinner game.

Jean came in, and we talked of various things, and looked at some old books, and, somehow--I forget the connection--began talking of old age.

It was in the midst of our debate that Grant, after his insane way, suddenly leaped up and, standing beside me as I sat, proceeded to make me an oration.

He talked of the friction of things and of the future of this soul or mind of ours, concerning the luck of which we know so little.
And, while I may or may not have agreed with his general theories, I did not disagree with the one that the autumn is as much a part of what there is as is the spring, and that all trends toward a common end, which must be for the best in some way we do not comprehend, because we see, at least, enough to know that nature, wiser than we, makes no mistakes.