'Looking Backwards?' she said. 'Oh, I don't want to do that. It's forward I want to go.'
'A laudable sentiment,' sneered Farwell, 'the theory of every Sunday School in the country, and the practice of none. However, you'll find it fairly soul-filling as an unintelligent anticipation. Personally I prefer the other. Demos is good stuff, for Gissing went through the fire.'
Victoria quickly walked away. Farwell looked surprised for a second, then saw the manageress on the stairs.
'Faugh,' he muttered, 'if the world's a stage I'm playing the part of a low intriguer.'
He sipped his tea meditatively. In a few minutes Victoria returned.
'Thank you,' she whispered. 'It's good of you. You're teaching me to live.'
Farwell looked at her critically.
'I don't see much good in that,' he said, 'unless you've got something to live for. One of our philosophers says you live either for experience or the race. I recommend the former to myself, and to you nothing.'
'Why shouldn't I live for anything?' she asked.
'Because life's too dear. And its pleasures are not white but piebald.'