"No, I don't mean that. I mean that there isn't anything. Really and truly!"
Rob said only, "H'm!"
"Yes, I dare say! But just think what I have to do. Tennis and hockey; cycling and walking; mending my clothes and making blouses—not that I'm much good at that! Going to tea with people I don't care a fig for; and having people here that I shouldn't mind never setting eyes on again! Smothering down all I think and feel, because nobody cares. Worrying and being worried, and all to no good. Nothing to show for the half-year that is gone, and nothing to look to in the year that's begun. The months are just simply frittered away, and no human being is the better for my being alive. It's not what I call Life. It is just getting through time. Don't you see? It suits Pen well enough. So long as she gets a decent amount of attention, she's happy. But I'm not made that way; and I can't see what life is given us for, if it means nothing better."
When she stopped, pleased with her own eloquence, Rob merely remarked—
"Don't you think that bit of hard judgment might have been left out? It wasn't a needful peroration."
Magda blushed; and Robert pondered.
"But, Rob—would you like to live such a life?"
Rob's gesture was sufficient answer.
"And yet you think I oughtn't to mind?"
"I beg your pardon. You are wrong to live it."