“I hate life, and faith, and such things. Faith is only fear. And life is a mass of unintelligent forces to which intelligent beings are submitted. Prostituted. Oh—oh!!—prostituted—”
“Perhaps life itself is something bigger than intelligence,” said Alvina.
“Bigger than intelligence!” shrieked Effie. “Nothing is bigger than intelligence. Your man is a hefty brute. His yellow eyes aren’t intelligent. They’re animal—”
“No,” said Alvina. “Something else. I wish he didn’t attract me—”
“There! Because you’re not content to be at the mercy of Forces!” cried Effie. “I’m not. I’m not. I want to be myself. And so forces tear me to pieces! Tear me to pie—eee—Oh-h-h! No!—”
Downstairs Tommy had walked Ciccio back into the house again, and the two men were drinking port in the study, discussing Italy, for which Tommy had a great sentimental affection, though he hated all Italian music after the younger Scarlatti. They drank port all through the night, Tommy being strictly forbidden to interfere upstairs, or even to fetch the doctor. They drank three and a half bottles of port, and were discovered in the morning by Alvina fast asleep in the study, with the electric light still burning. Tommy slept with his fair and ruffled head hanging over the edge of the couch like some great loose fruit, Ciccio was on the floor, face downwards, his face in his folded arms.
Alvina had a great difficulty in waking the inert Ciccio. In the end, she had to leave him and rouse Tommy first: who in rousing fell off the sofa with a crash which woke him disagreeably. So that he turned on Alvina in a fury, and asked her what the hell she thought she was doing. In answer to which Alvina held up a finger warningly, and Tommy, suddenly remembering, fell back as if he had been struck.
“She is sleeping now,” said Alvina.
“Is it a boy or a girl?” he cried.
“It isn’t born yet,” she said.