“I’m not sure that you are right, Carey,” said Pierce, rather coldly.
“What!”
“Can a true and perfect egoist be in love?”
“Certainly. Is not even an egoist an animal?”
Pierce’s lips tightened for a second, and his right hand strained itself round his knee, on which it was lying.
“And how much can she be in love?”
“Very much.”
“Do you mean with her body?”
“Yes, I do; and with the spirit that lives in it. I don’t believe there’s any life but this. A church is more fantastic to me than the room in which Punch belabours Judy. But I say that there is spirit in lust, in hunger, in everything. When I want a drink my spirit wants it. Viola Holme’s spirit—a flame that will be blown out at death—takes part in her love for that great brute Holme. And yet she’s one of the most pronounced egoists in London.”
“Do you care to tell us any reason you may have for saying so?” said Sir Donald.