“What _do_ I stand for, to you?” He thought a moment, and then answered, as if the word had pushed itself up out of the deeps of his mind. “Reality.” “Merely that?” Her voice was disdainful and challenging. He took up its challenge. “No—more than that. Pain. You stand for that.” “I?” “And heartbreak.” “I?” “And yesterday and tomorrow.” “And am I,” she demanded quietly, “never to stand for any of the beautiful things?—Must you find them—or think you find them—in Phyllis ... and Elva?...” He felt as though they had reached the crux of their discussion at last. And he felt, too, that it was a perilous moment. He could sense the forces of an intense resistance gathering in her mind. “Yes, that’s our quarrel,” he said. “What?” He spoke with a sudden anger, only half repressed. “You won’t help me. You never have. You tell me lies....” “Felix!” “Yes, you do. And I—I believe you, because it is you who tell them. Lies about life.” “What have I told you?” “That I could be free. I _was_ free, Rose-Ann. With Elva. For three days. That was quite enough. And that’s why I am not ashamed or sorry. I learned something from her that you refused to tell me.” “What did you learn—from her?” “That I don’t want freedom.” “Don’t you?” she mocked gently. “The truth, Felix!” “Oh, it’s beautiful enough! As death is more beautiful than life. As for me, after a little cupful of death, I prefer pain and heartbreak. I prefer you.” “But—it’s as if you wanted me to make you unhappy, Felix.... That’s what you are saying!” “Isn’t it true? You _have_ made me unhappy. And happy, too, Rose-Ann. The two things go together. I want them both. Not this mad, mystical peace that is like death.” “The mad mystical peace of death,” she repeated. “You make it very alluring, Felix. One gets tired of life.... Just as you got tired of me. But perhaps—perhaps I am not what you think I am. Perhaps I can understand the joys of a little cupful of death—I, too.” The waiter arrived with a savoury stew. He uncovered the dish with a flourish. It reeked of nutritiousness. They stared at it helplessly. The waiter went away. “I can’t eat,” Rose-Ann said appealingly. Sympathetically he passed her a cigarette. “Felix,” she said, “I know what you think you want. It’s like that stew. You ought to want it; but you don’t. You want coffee and cigarettes and talk and poetry—not the solid food of life.... You try to fool yourself. And you try to fool me.”