“George. You have always been responsible for the science. George. You know better than I do. Is—Is it proved?”
“What proved?”
“Either way?”
“I don’t understand.”
“Death ends all. After so much—Such splendid beginnin’s. Somewhere. Something.”
I stared at him amazed. His sunken eyes were very grave.
“What do you expect?” I said in wonder.
He would not answer. “Aspirations,” he whispered. He fell into a broken monologue, regardless of me. “Trailing clouds of glory,” he said, and “first-rate poet, first-rate....George was always hard. Always.”
For a long time there was silence.
Then he made a gesture that he wished to speak.