“You're just the old plunger you used to be, Britten,” I said. “You're going too far with all your might for the sake of the damns. Like a donkey that drags its cart up a bank to get thistles. There's depths in Liberalism—”
“We were talking about Liberals.”
“Liberty!”
“Liberty! What do YOOR little lot know of liberty?”
“What does any little lot know of liberty?”
“It waits outside, too big for our understanding. Like the night and the stars. And lust, Remington! lust and bitterness! Don't I know them? with all the sweetness and hope of life bitten and trampled, the dear eyes and the brain that loved and understood—and my poor mumble of a life going on! I'm within sight of being a drunkard, Remington! I'm a failure by most standards! Life has cut me to the bone. But I'm not afraid of it any more. I've paid something of the price, I've seen something of the meaning.”
He flew off at a tangent. “I'd rather die in Delirium Tremens,” he cried, “than be a Crampton or a Lewis....”
“Make-believe. Make-believe.” The phrase and Britten's squat gestures haunted me as I walked homeward alone. I went to my room and stood before my desk and surveyed papers and files and Margaret's admirable equipment of me.
I perceived in the lurid light of Britten's suggestions that so it was Mr. George Alexander would have mounted a statesman's private room....
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