“Don’t I?”
“No!”
“Why!—At first I was always trying. Socialism, religion—all those things. But you don’t care—you won’t care. You won’t have that I’ve thought over these things at all, that I care for these things! It wasn’t any good to argue. You just care for me in a way—and all the rest of me—doesn’t matter! And because I’ve got a friend ...”
“Friend!”
“Yes—friend!”
“Why!—you hide her letters!”
“Because I tell you you wouldn’t understand what they are about. But, pah! I won’t argue. I won’t! You’re jealous, and there’s the end of the matter!”
“Well, who wouldn’t be jealous?”
He stared at her as if he found the question hard to see. The theme was difficult—invincibly difficult. He surveyed the room for a diversion. The note-book he had disinterred from her novelettes lay upon the table and reminded him of his grievance of rained hours. His rage exploded. He struck out abruptly towards fundamental things. He gesticulated forcibly. “This can’t go on!” he cried, “this can’t go on! How can I work? How can I do anything?”
He made three steps and stood in a clear space.