“I knew you were not going to die yet. Not until you had written my story.”
“It seems not to matter,” I answered feebly, “to be small and trivial.”
“Work whilst ye have the light,” she quoted. The words were in the room, in the air.
“It is not light, not very light,” I pleaded.
“There has been no biography of me. How would you like it if it had been you? And all the critics said I would live....”
“Must I stay for that?”
“You promised, you know.”
“Did I? I had forgotten.”
“No, no. You could not forget, not even you. And you will make your readers cry.”
“But if I make myself cry too?”