Tom sat a bit diminished on the floor. Sedulously he flicked the ash from his cigarette, each vestige of the ash; his fingers close to the hot, red tip. He looked up:
“This chap has something I lack and want: a sort of pure sincerity. He’ll go far—and be miserable as the devil.”
“Look out! Aren’t you the one who is afraid of misery?”
“True. I want him to give me the saving treasure. I want to give him the saving moderation. Then we could both be saved.”
Cornelia laughed. “What are you talking about now?”
But Tom was very sober. “He is all wings. He has no eyes. He’ll dash himself against the sun. I am all eyes. I see everything. But where are my wings? I’ll freeze to death from far away, seeing the sun.”
He got up. He paced the room.
“Oh, this is nonsense. You are right. I liked him because he was a naïve, country lad. I was afraid I had hurt his innocence——”
“You are dying to kill it.”
Tom stopped and faced his sister. “That’s not quite fair, Cornelia. Not kill it. Steal some of it, perhaps.”