He spoke at last. It was after breakfast.
"Iris," he said, "how long is this to continue?"
"This—what?"
"This life—this miserable solitude and silence."
"Till we die," she replied. "What else do you expect? You have sold our freedom, and we must pay the price."
"No; it shall end. I will end it. I can endure it no longer."
"You are still young. You will perhaps have forty years more to live—all like this—as dull and empty. It is the price we must pay."
"No," he repeated, "it shall end. I swear that I will go on like this no longer."
"You had better go to London and walk in Piccadilly to get a little society."
"What do you care what I do or where I go?"