There had been two Maurice Jourdains, the one who said, "I'll understand. I'll never lose my temper"; the one with the crystal mind, shining and flashing, the mind like a big room filled from end to end with light. But he had never existed. Maurice Jourdain was only a name. A name for intellectual beauty. You could love that. Love was "the cle-eansing _fi_-yer!" There was the love of the body and the love of the soul. Perhaps she had loved Maurice Jourdain with her soul and not with her body. No. She had _not_ loved him with her soul, either. Body and soul; soul and body. Spinoza said they were two aspects of the same thing. _What_ thing? Perhaps it was silly to ask what thing; it would be just body _and_ soul. Somebody talked about a soul dragging a corpse. Her body wasn't a corpse; it was strong and active; it could play games and jump; it could pick Dan up and carry him round the table; it could run a mile straight on end. It could excite itself with its own activity and strength. It dragged a corpse-like soul, dull and heavy; a soul that would never be excited again, never lift itself up again in any ecstasy. If only he had let her alone. If only she could go back to her real life. But she couldn't. She couldn't feel any more her sudden, secret happiness. Maurice Jourdain had driven it away. It had nothing to do with Maurice Jourdain. He ought not to have been able to take it from you. She might go up to Karva Hill to look for it; but it would not be there. She couldn't even remember what it had been like. IV. New Year's night. She was lying awake in her white cell. She hated Maurice Jourdain. His wearily searching eyes made her restless. His man's voice made her restless with its questions. "Do you know what it will be like--afterwards?" "Do you really want me?" She didn't want him. But she wanted Somebody. Somebody. Somebody. He had left her with this ungovernable want. Somebody. If you lay very still and shut your eyes he would come to you. You would see him. You knew what he was like. He had Jimmy's body and Jimmy's face, and Mark's ways. He had the soul of Shelley and the mind of Spinoza and Immanuel Kant. They talked to each other. Her reverie ran first into long, fascinating conversations about Space and Time and the Thing-in-itself, and the Transcendental Ego. He could tell you whether you were right or wrong; whether Substance and the Thing-in-itself were the same thing or different. "Die--If thou wouldst be with that which thou dost seek." He wrote that. He wrote all Shelley's poems except the bad ones. He wrote Swinburne's _Atalanta in Calydon_. He could understand your wanting to know what the Thing-in-itself was. If by dying to-morrow, to-night, this minute, you could know what it was, you would be glad to die. Wouldn't you?