"Don't say that to me, Barbara. Even in fun…. You know you love me."
"I don't. I don't."
"You do. You know you do. You know you want me to take you in my arms.
Why be so cruel to yourself?"
"To myself? I'd kill myself before I let you…. Why, I'd kill you."
"No. No. No. You only think you would, you little spitfire."
He had given back altogether and now leaned against the chimneypiece, not beaten, not abashed, but smiling at her in a triumphant certitude. For so long the glamour of his illusion held him.
"Nothing you can say, Barbara, will persuade me that you don't care for me."
"Then you must be mad. Mad as a hatter."
"All men go mad at times. You must make allowances. Listen—"
"I won't listen. I don't want to hear another word."