"They are alive. They're better than people. You know the best of your
Shelley and Plato and Spinoza. Instead of the worst."
"I should have liked to have known them, too. Sometimes I pretend that I do know them. That they're alive. That they're here. Saying things and listening. They're kind. They never misunderstand. They never lose their tempers."
"You mustn't do that," he said sharply.
"Why not?"
"It isn't good for you. Talk to me. I'm alive. I'm here, I'll listen.
I'll never misunderstand. I'll never lose my temper."
"You aren't always here."
He smiled, secretly, with straight lips, under the funny, frizzy, French moustache. And when he spoke again he looked old and wise, like an uncle.
"Wait," he said. "Wait a bit. Wait three years."
"Three years?" she said. "Three years before we can go for another walk?"
He shouted laughter and drew it back with a groan.