"You sit here," she said. "That chair's comfy. I'll sit here, opposite; here's an ash-tray."
"Could I light a lamp or candle?" Roger asked, taking out his match-box.
"No, thanks," she said. "Don't light up just yet; I'm sick of light. I wish we could live in the dark, like wild beasts."
"London is on your nerves," said Roger. "The noise and worry are upsetting you. You are tired of London, not of light."
He was disappointed by being asked to sit in darkness. He began to lose interest in the lady. She was only a modern dramatic heroine, i.e. a common woman overstrained. He had heard similar affected silliness from a dozen empty women, some of them pretty. He had heard that Mrs. Templeton was pretty. As she refused light, he decided that fame had lied. "She must be a blonde," he thought, "and this room is lit by electricity." He wished that Templeton would come. Templeton would make the situation easier, and his wife's talk more sensible. The lady was silently trying to sum him up.
"No; I'm not tired of London," she was saying. "Only one cannot live in London."
"London is on your nerves," Roger repeated. "London is a feverish great spider. It sucks out vitality, and leaves its own poison instead. Look at the arts. A young artist comes up here full of vitality. Unless he is a truly great man, London will suck it all out of him, and make him as poisonous and as feverish as herself."
"Yes, that is quite true," she answered. "I wish we could all be simple and natural, and have time to live. Life is so interestin'. The only really interestin' thing."
"What kind of life do you wish to live?"
"I wish to live my own life. I want to know my own soul. To live. In London one is always livin' other people's lives, goin' dinin', doin' things because other people do them. But where else can you meet interestin' people?"