"That's what Horry's thinking now. He's nearly off his head about it."
"Look here, Barbara; you're simply sentimentalizing because he's ill and you're sorry for him…. You needn't be. I tell you, he's enjoying his illness. … I don't suppose," said Ralph thoughtfully, "he's enjoyed anything so much since the war."
"Doesn't that show what brutes we've been, that he has to be ill in order to enjoy himself?"
"Oh, no. He enjoys himself—himself, Barbara—all the time. He can't help enjoying his illness. He likes to have everybody fussing round him and thinking about him."
"That's what I mean. We never did think of him. Not seriously. We've done nothing—nothing but laugh. Why, you're laughing now. … It's horrible of you, Ralph, when he may be dying. … It would serve us all jolly well right if he did die."
To her surprise and indignation, Barbara began to cry. The hard, damp lump of pocket-handkerchief was not a bit of good, and before she could reach out for it Ralph's arms were round her and he was kissing the tears off one by one.
"Darling, I didn't think you really minded—"
"What d-did you th-think, then?" she sobbed.
"I thought you were playing. A sort of variation of the game."
"I told you it was a cruel game."