"Won't it be the proprietors of the 'Morning Telegraph' who'll be responsible—if I die?"
"I set them on to you."
"Did you? I rather hoped they'd pitched on me because I was the best man for the job."
"The best man—to die?"
"War correspondents don't die. At least they don't set out with that intention."
"You will die," she said slowly; "because everything I care for does."
"Why care," he said, "for things that are so bent on dying?"
"I care—because they die."
Her cry was the very voice of mortality and mortality's desire. Having uttered it she seemed suddenly aware of what she had done.
"Why shouldn't I tell you that I care for you? What does it matter? That ends it."