“And in the meantime, one has to live.”
“Keep your head in the clouds,” she said. “Make use of these people, but always remember that in the light of what may come, they are only the dirt beneath your feet. Remember that you may be the first of all the ages to solve the great secret—the secret of carrying your consciousness beyond the grave.”
“Life is short,” he said, “and the task is great.”
“Too great for cowards,” she answered. “Yet look at me. Do I despair? I am seventy-one years old. I have no fear of death. I have learnt enough at least to help me into the grave. That will do, Bertrand. Go on with your breakfast, and burn that letter.”
He tore it in half, and went to the sideboard to help himself from one of the dishes. When he returned, Madame was drumming thoughtfully upon the tablecloth with her long fingers.
“Bertrand,” she said.
He looked toward her curiously. There was a new note, a new expression in the way she had pronounced his name.
“The girl, the little fair fool of a girl with money—Lois Champneyes you called her—where is she?”
“She is in London,” he answered.