David was unborn. But his mouth sucked vision. Sucking the Night sucked vision. He slept again. Slept long.... Slept years.... But he lived.
David and Tom came back from dinner: they sat together for a last smoke in their room: the world they willed came to be. David lit his pipe: it was the one smoke that gave him comfort. Tom sat gloomy, nervous, flicking his cigarette until he had destroyed it, lighting another. He tore open his collar as if he needed air. He whistled the last half of a tune, stopped, met David’s eyes and broke from the strain of their mutual discovery by jumping up and gazing into the night. David did not budge. The room was filled with a strange restraint. Somewhere a struggle was, in which his mind grappled against a sinuous opponent. Why did he have to struggle even with his friend for the friend he wanted?
He was sick of struggle. Was not all struggle a lie? Life was work enough. There was no repose even in strength. There was no repose even in pleasure. David thought of Constance. Yes: even there was work. Was respite in weakness? David doubted, seeing Tom, thinking of the pelt of his wit, the curves of his mind striving for attention. In death?...
Tom was back of his chair, standing above him. He put his hands about David’s neck, drew them close.
“What are you thinking?”
David was silent. Tom’s hands drew closer.
“I could choke you,” he said. “——if it weren’t that the cigarette smoke gets in my eyes.”
They laughed together.
David was sure he understood. Tom would change. Tom must change! When Tom changed it would have been by David’s help. Meantime, he must abide by him, not tire, and watch. For David could not easily endure the ways of his friend. He might well know what they meant: he need not therefore deny his unhappiness before them....
Yet unhappiness must be too heavy a word. Discomfort rather. The base of a friendship such as this between them must be happiness. For the base was solid!