“And what, then, of death,” she asked, “if we live for nothing more than this?”
The man straightened in his chair.
“What’s that?”
“Death.”
“What’s death to you?”
“The falling of leaves and a silence as of snow under a winter sky. I often think of death; nor is it strange to me. Do you fear the grave?”
“Stop this nonsense,” said the man, with some symptoms of rebellion.
“Are you happy?”
Zeus Gildersedge wriggled in his chair.
“When I want your sympathy I’ll ask for it,” he said. “You’re a little too forward for your years, my dear. Don’t worry your head about my future. Keep your sentimentalities for the birds and the bees and the twaddling rubbish you read in books. Damn sentiment. Supper at eight.”