"Don't encourage him. Don't let him talk about it. Don't let his mind dwell on it. Turn the conversation. Take his pens and paper from him and don't let him see them again till he is well."
When the Doctor left her she went up-stairs to Owen.
He was still sitting up writing, dashing down lines with a speed that told her what race he ran.
"Owen," she said, "you know. He told you——"
He waved her away with a gesture that would have been violent if it could.
She tried to take his pen and paper from him, and he laid his thin hands out over the sheets. The sweat stood in big drops between the veins of his hands; it streamed from his forehead.
"Wait just a little longer, till you're well," she pleaded.
"For God's sake, darling," he whispered hoarsely, "leave me, go away."
She went. In her own room her work stood unfinished on the table where she had left it, months ago. She pushed it away in anger. She hated the sight of it. She sat watching the clock for the moments when she would have to go to him with his medicine.
She thought how right they had been after all. Nina and Jane and Tanqueray, when they spoke of the cruelty of genius. It had no mercy and no pity. It had taken its toll from all of them. It was taking its toll from Owen now, to the last drop of his blood, to the last torturing breath. His life was nothing to it.