"May I not speak to you?"
"Is it necessary?"
He thought a moment. "No, not necessary. Nothing is in this life, you know. I thought differently once. Once—when I was younger—six years younger—I thought happiness was necessary. I found that a man might live without it."
She stood gazing at him through the shadows, pistol on hip.
"What do you mean?" she asked.
"I mean that happiness is not necessary to life. Life goes on all the same. My life has continued for six years without that happiness which some believe to be essential."
After a silence she said: "I can tell by the way you speak that you are well born. I—I dread to do what I simply must do."
He, too, sat silent a long time—long enough for an utterly perverse and whimsical humor to take complete possession of him.
"Won't you let me go—this time?" he pleaded.
"I cannot."