The last splendor of day. The sun’s arms turned upward, suppliant in death. The vast Star sank beneath crumble of buildings. Tom and David shivered at the eternal surcease.
“I feel that the sun some day of its own accord will go from me because of what I do against it.... Go at midday, as it has gone just now.”
New shadows rose, they were silent like lips that have just spoken. The glow was gone from the room: it throbbed still in their minds. A flower faded.
David said: “I wish, Tom, I could help you.”
Tom did not smile.
“I feel you are unjust to yourself. Perhaps unjust to the world also. It can’t be as evil as you paint it. As for you, I know how far you are from what you say of yourself. You deserve the sun, Tom.”
Tom did not move.
“Just think! Over there, in the East—those black belching houses where you say they slaughter cattle and brew hops—the sun will rise to-morrow. Before you awake.”
“Where do you get your idea of the world?” ... A sharp question. It left David blunt.
“I can’t explain. It’s not reasoned out. My idea of the world I guess is chiefly what I feel.”