She closed her eyes. "I'm quite happy."
"For heaven's sake be honest. What is the use of lying, to me of all people? Don't I know how happy you are?"
"But I am—I am, George. It's only this horrid, devilish thing that's been tacked on to me——"
"That beautiful, divine thing that God made part of you, the thing that you should have loved and made sacrifices to—if there were to have been sacrifices—the thing you've outraged and frustrated, and done your best to destroy, in your blind, senseless lust for what you call happiness. You've no right to make It suffer."
"They say suffering's the best thing that can happen to it."
"Not Its suffering. Your suffering is—the pain that makes you alive, that stings and urges and keeps you going—going till you drop. To feel the pull of the bit when you swerve on the road—Its road—to have the lash laid about your shoulders when you jib—that's good. You women need the lash more than we because you're more given to swerving and jibbing. Look at Nina. She was lashed into it if any woman ever was."
"She isn't the only one, George."
"I hope she isn't. God is good to the great artists sometimes, and he was good to her."
"Do you suppose Laura thinks so?"