“About a man and a woman who meet and are happy.”
“Somewhat of a tour de force, I conclude.”
He frowned. “In literature we needn’t intrude our own limitations. I’m not so silly as to think that all marriages turn out like mine. My character is to blame for our catastrophe, not marriage.”
“My dear, I too have married; marriage is to blame.”
But here again he seemed to know better.
“Well,” she said, leaving the table and moving with her dessert to the mantelpiece, “so you are abandoning marriage and taking to literature. And are happy.”
“Yes.”
“Because, as we used to say at Cambridge, the cow is there. The world is real again. This is a room, that a window, outside is the night.”
“Go on.”
He pointed to the floor. “The day is straight below, shining through other windows into other rooms.”