‘Oh!’ she blushed, horrified.
He flung at her:
‘What do you wish for the people you love? Life?’
‘Of course. Don’t you?’ She was confused, out of her depth.
‘No—God, no!’
‘Then what?’
‘Unconsciousness. Heavenly, heavenly annihilation.’
‘Then why don’t you kill him?’ She was shocked at the sound of her own words.
‘Because I don’t love him enough.’ He laughed. ‘Luckily I don’t love anyone enough—never shall. Not even myself.’ He turned to the window and said, speaking low, with strained composure: ‘Sometimes—in moments of clear vision—I see it all, the whole futile sickening farce. But it gets obscured. So my friends are safe. Besides, I’m so damned emotional: if they implored me to save them I shouldn’t have the heart to argue how much wiser they’d be to die.’
She wondered with alarm if he were mad and sat silent, waiting in vain for an intelligent counter-argument to present itself. Finally she stammered: