wedgecroft. [Successfully decoyed into argument.] Surely an artist is a man who understands.
trebell. Everything about life, but not life itself. That's where art fails a man.
wedgecroft. That's where everything but living fails a man. [Drifting into introspection himself.] Yes, it's true. I can talk cleverly and I've written a book . . but I'm barren. [Then the healthy mind re-asserts itself.] No, it's not true. Our thoughts are children . . and marry and intermarry. And we're peopling the world . . not badly.
trebell. Well . . either life is too little a thing to matter or it's so big that such specks of it as we may be are of no account. These are two points of view. And then one has to consider if death can't be sometimes the last use made of life.
There is a tone of menace in this which recalls wedgecroft to the present trouble.
wedgecroft. I doubt the virtue of sacrifice . . or the use of it.
trebell. How else could I tell Horsham that my work matters? Does he think so now? . . not he.
wedgecroft. You mean if they'd had to throw you over?
Once again trebell looks up with that secretive smile.