“What ruins, Pink?” she managed to ask.
“All the ruins,” he said. “You know, don't you? The bank, our bank, and the club?”
It seemed to her afterwards that she knew before he told her, saw it all, a dreadful picture which had somehow superimposed upon it a vision of Jim Doyle with the morning paper, and the thing that this was not the time for.
“That's all,” he finished. “Eleven at the club, two of them my own fellows. In France, you know. I found one of them myself, this morning.” He stared past her, over her head. “Killed for nothing, the way the Germans terrorized Belgium. Haven't you seen the papers?”
“No, they wouldn't let you see them, of course. Lily, I want you to leave here. If you don't, if you stay now, you're one of them, whether you believe what they preach or not. Don't you see that?”
She was not listening. Her faith was dying hard, and the mental shock had brought her dizziness and a faint nausea. He stood watching her, and when she glanced up at him it seemed to her that Pink was hard. Hard and suspicious, and the suspicion was for her. It was incredible.
“Do you believe what they preach?” he demanded. “I've got to know, Lily. I've suffered the tortures of the damned all night.”
“I didn't know it meant this.”
“Do you?” he repeated.
“No. You ought to know me better than that. But I don't believe that it started here, Pink. He was very angry this morning, and he wouldn't let me see the paper.”