“Why should I? No, I won’t.” “Say ‘with you.’” “No--hi, stop! What are you doing? If you go on like that I shall go home.” “But you didn’t say ‘with you.’” “Why should I?” “To please me.” “I’m not sure I want to now.” “Do.” “I’m sure I don’t see why I should. But as you seem to’ve set your heart on it, here it is--‘with you,’ stupid.” “It has no meaning now; how sad. You are very cruel, June. I used to think of cruel ladies and of kind ones when I was up here, but they were none of them like you.” “Cruel ladies and kind ones? What do you mean?” “Such as one used to see on the cinema. I used to grow so romantic over this view. I wanted to go into politics then. When you thought of all the people starving, there was nothing else to do. I became Prime Minister, of course, up here, and addressed huge meetings which thundered applause. Once, at one of those meetings, a lady became so affected by my words that she had a fit. She was carried out, and the commotion over it gave me time to drink a cup of water, which was most necessary. It was all very vivid up here. I was to lead a public life of the greatest possible brilliance. It is different now.” “How wonderful that would be.” “You know what I mean? One planned everything out on a broad scale, remembering little scraps of flattery that someone or other had been so good as to throw one and building on that. One was so hungry for flattery. The funny thing is that when one goes blind life goes on just the same, only half of it is lopped off.” “Yes?” “One would think that life would stop, wouldn’t you? But it always goes on, goes on, and that is rather irritating.” “My life’s always the same.” “Yes, I was on the crest of my audience and the woman threw her fit just as the climax was reached; but I repeat myself. I shan’t feel that sort of thing any more now, there is so little to want.” “Oh, John!” “And it would have been so lonely without you.” “Would it?” “Say you like being up here with me.” “All right, so long as it pleases you.” “Pleases me? Only that?” How slow, how slow this was. “Oh, well. Nice boy.” “Thanks. But now, do you know what I am going to do now? After all, one must have something to put against one’s name. For I am going to write, yes, to write. Such books, June, such amazing tales, rich with intricate plot. Life will be clotted and I will dissect it, choosing little bits to analyse. I shall be a great writer. I am sure of it.” “Yes.” “But I will be. What else is there to live for? Writing means so much to me, and it is the only thing in which the blind are not hampered. There was Milton.” “Ah yes, Milton.” “I must justify myself somehow.” “Funny John.” “Yes, very comical. Blundering about in the dark yet knowing about everything really. I know I do. And I will tell the world.” “Yes.” “But do you understand?” “Yes.” “You see, June, no one cares enough, about the war and everything. No one really cared about my going blind.” “Yes.”