She lingered a moment more watching him in his brooding revery where he stood leaning against the doorway. And after a while he raised his haunted eyes to hers.
"I can't keep on," he breathed.
"Yes you can!"
"No…. The world is slipping away—under foot. It's going on without me—in spite of me."
"It's you that are slipping, if anything is. Be fair to the world at least—even if you mean to betray it—and me."
"I don't want to betray anybody—anything." He had begun to tremble when he stood leaning against his door. "I—don't know—what to do."
"Stand by the world. Stand by me. And, through me, stand by your own self."
The young fellow's forehead was wet with the vague horror of something. He made an effort to speak, to straighten up; gave her a dreadful look of appeal which turned into a snarl.
He whispered between writhing lips: "Can't you let me alone? Can't I end it if I can't stand it—without your blocking me every time—every time I stir a finger—"
"McKay! Wait! Don't touch me!—don't do that!"