“Oh, you needn’t get funny,” she retorted. “It’s something to know that you don’t know anything. . . . I mean. . . . What do I mean? I mean I don’t know anything in my head. I know lots of things by intuition. I think I know more than you do, that way. . . .” “Not a doubt of it,” said Wilfred. “But the voice of intuition is dumb,” Elaine went on. “I act as I act without knowing why. There is no residue. Intuition prompts you how to act at the moment; but it doesn’t help you to lay out a course.” How exactly, sometimes, unconscious people can convey what is in their minds! thought Wilfred enviously. “What about books?” he suggested. “Books! Pshaw! Books are a kind of dope!” said Elaine. “You read only novels—and those, not the best.” “I _do_ read the best!” she said indignantly. “I don’t mean the latest best,” said Wilfred. “I read poetry, too. . . . But poetry just lifts you up—and lets you drop again. Oh, I suppose it’s my fault. Really serious books bore me.” “There are good novels,” said Wilfred. “They get on so slowly!” said Elaine with a sigh. “And when you do disentangle the meaning, it’s only what you know already.” “What is it, exactly, that you are after?” asked Wilfred. “Knowledge of life,” she said promptly. “Old people pretend that they have all the knowledge. I _feel_ that they are wrong.” “In what, for instance?” “Well, it’s a platitude amongst old people that love always dies.” “I don’t know of any book that would assure you that it doesn’t,” said Wilfred, lowering his eyes. “Never mind books. What do you think? Does love die?” “What kind of love?” he asked with a sinking heart. “What kind?” she repeated staring. “I mean love between a man and a woman, of course.” “Passion burns itself out,” said Wilfred, “but I suppose something fine may come of it.” “Oh, that’s just like an old person,” said Elaine. “The cooling-off process is hideous to me! I don’t want any left-overs!” “Well, what are you going to do about it?” he asked. “It doesn’t help to be cynical!” “What does your own heart tell you?” “My heart tells me that love dies,” murmured Elaine unexpectedly. She was staring into the fire. “I was hoping for some reassurance.” “I hope it does,” said Wilfred flippantly. He observed that his teeth were clenched together. She ignored this. “Even though love is transitory, should we not stake everything on it, anyway?” she murmured. “Everybody must decide that for themselves,” he said composedly, feeling like a little waxy-faced oracle. “But what do _you_ think?” she insisted. “It’s too complicated!” he said with a burst of irritation. “I could not possibly give an answer to cover the whole question.” Another silence. “Do you believe in the devil?” asked Elaine. “In my own individual devil, yes.” “What’s he like?” “He’s a wet blanket!” Elaine laughed. “How original! Mine is a more conventional sort of devil.” “Yes, I know.” “How do you know?” she asked quickly. “Can’t I have intuitions too?”