"Perhaps not, but it convinced me I was done for in London."
"What do you intend to do, then?"
"I can't tell. Nothing, I suppose. I had my tragedy returned, and I've no heart to write another—except, maybe, my own, and that will have to be the task of somebody else."
"What do you mean? You're talking in riddles. How can anybody else write your tragedy?"
"Anybody who knew the facts could do it. You could. No one better. The end's the difficulty—for you, not for me. But sooner or later you'd hear what the end was."
Lavinia grasped his wrist tightly, and looking into his face, saw his lips twitching convulsively.
"I understand," she burst out, "you mean to take your own life. Oh...."
"A tragedy must have a tragic finish or it isn't a tragedy. What have I left but for the curtain to come down?"
"You're talking nonsense. Think of your father—your mother, if you have one."
"The best in the world, poor soul."