“Well, it is,” I assented, losing all sense of consistency.
She flourished the egg-and-brandy glass. “I'm so glad. Now I know you are really well, and will face life as you faced death, like the brave man that you are.”
I cried to her to hold. I had not intended to go as far as that. I confronted death with a smile; I meet life with the wriest of wry faces. She would have none of my arguments.
“No matter how damnable it is—it's splendid to be alive, just to feel that you can fight, just to feel that you don't care a damn for any old thing that can happen, because you're strong and brave. I do want you to get back all that you've lost, all that you've lost through me, and you'll do it. I know that you'll do it. You'll just go out and smash up the silly old world and bring it to your feet. You will, Simon, won't you? I know you will.”
She quivered like an optimistic Cassandra.
“My dear Lola,” said I.
I was touched. I took her hand and raised it to my lips, whereat she flushed like a girl.
“Did you come here to tell me all this?”
“No,” she replied simply. “It came all of a sudden, as I was standing here. I've often wanted to say it. I'm glad I have.”
She threw back her head and regarded me a moment with a strange, proud smile; then turned and walked slowly away, her head brushing the long scarlet clusters of the pepper trees.