"I don't mind. What does it matter? When I'm making music I think there's nothing but music in all the world; when I'm doing philosophy I think there's nothing but philosophy in all the world; when I'm writing verses I think there's nothing but writing in all the world; and when I'm playing tennis I think there's nothing but tennis in all the world."
"I see. And when you suffer you think there's nothing but suffering in all the world."
"Yes."
"And when—and when—"
His face was straight and serious and quiet. His eyes covered her; first her face, then her breasts; she knew he could see her bodice quiver with the beating of her heart. She felt afraid.
"Then," he said, "you'll not think; you'll know."
She thought: "He didn't say it. He won't. He can't. It isn't possible."
"Hadn't we better go?"
He sprang to his feet.
"Much better," he said.