She filled in his gap. “To see what life was like on land here?… Isn’t that enough?”
Melville’s cigarette had failed to light. He regarded its blighted career pensively.
“Life,” he said, “isn’t all—this sort of thing.”
“This sort of thing?”
“Sunlight. Cigarette smoking. Talk. Looking nice.”
“But it’s made up——”
“For example?”
“Oh, you know.”
“What?”