He answered very slowly: "I don't think—it matters—what I wanted—or what I didn't want. It's enough—isn't it?—if I want to now—if I want it more than anything else?"
I said, No, I didn't think it did matter.
But I hadn't a notion what he meant. I didn't know that he was on the edge of a confession. I couldn't see that he was trying to tell me something about himself, and that I had started him off by telling him he was splendid. It was as if—then—he too had felt that Viola was there and listening to us, as if he were speaking to her and not to me.
For the next thing he said was, "I want you to tell Viola about it. Tell her it's all right. Tell her I'm all right. See?"
"But shan't you," I said, "be seeing her? Isn't she going to see you off or something?"
He said, "No. Much better not. She wouldn't be content with seeing me off. She'd try to come out with me. She'd worry me to take her. And I'm not going to take her. She isn't to know I'm going till I've gone. And she isn't to know where I've gone to. I won't have her coming out to me. You've got to see to that, Furny. You've got to stop her if she tries to get out. They're all trying. You should just see the bitches—tumbling, and wriggling and scrabbling with their claws and crawling on their stomachs to get to the front—tearing each other's eyes out to get there first. And there are fellows that'll take them. They'll even take their wives.
"Not me. Not much. I wouldn't let Viola cross in the same boat with that lot.
"It ought to be put a stop to.
"The place I'm going to—the things I'm going to see—and to do—aren't fit for women—aren't fit for women to come within ten miles of. Whatever you do, Furny—and I don't care what you do—you're not to let her get out."
I suppose—I suppose I made him some sort of promise. He says I did. I don't remember.