“I wonder what your archaic sculptor man would think of it?” I said. “He wasn’t here.... We haven’t seen him for a long time.” She shrugged her shoulders and continued to gaze into the smoke of her cigarette. “So you are bored,” I said. “A world of your own, a lord at your feet, and still you are bored.” “Do you mean to pick a quarrel with me?” she asked. “I wish to cancel our bargain,” I said. “The one we made that time long ago in the tea shop.” “Very well,” she said. “It is cancelled.” “Is that all?” “What more could there be?” she asked, looking at me for the first time, with that naïve expression of blameless innocence which was Eve’s fig leaf. “You have nothing to say?” “No,” she said. “Women are not as vocal about these things as men seem to be.” “You were vocal enough when we were making the bargain,” I said. “Have you no curiosity to know why I wish to cancel it?” “Friendship does not satisfy a man,” she said. “Have you made the same bargain with others? ... with Lord Porteous?” I asked. “No.” “Why not?” “Please don’t be stupid,” she said, lighting another cigarette and beginning to toy with the smoke. “Are you staying for dinner?” “I’m going,” I said, “but not until I have told you.” “What?” “Why I ask to cancel our bargain.” “Oh,” she said. “I thought that was quite done with.” “Well, then, why you are bored.” “Yes,” she said, “why I am bored. You will tell me that?” Her profile was in silhouette against the black of the chair. She was smiling derisively. “It is because you have imprisoned yourself in a lonely castle,” I said. “You used that figure of speech yourself when we were making the bargain. ‘It is my castle,’ you said. Therefore you know it. The name of that castle is Selfishness. The name of your jailer is Vera Afraid. What you fear is life, for its pain and scars. You hail it from afar. You call it inside the walls under penalities. It must be good. It shall not bite or scratch or kiss you. You are too precious to be touched.” “You haven’t named the prisoner,” she said, slowly. “She is Vera Desireful,” I said. “She is starved for life, for the bread of participation.... She lives upon the poisonous crusts of phantasy. She is probably in danger of going mad. Her dreams are terrible.” “You cannot be saying these things to me!” she exclaimed, with a startled, incredulous face. “Long ago I might have said them just as well,” I answered. “I have known always what an unnatural, self-saving woman you are, how treacherous you are to the impulse which brings you again and again to the verge of experience. There, in the act of embracing life, you suddenly freeze with selfish fear. Do you think life can be so cheated? If it cannot burn you it will wither you. When it is too late you may realize that to have one must give. Well, it is impossible of course. You cannot give yourself. The impulse is betrayed on the threshold. I knew it when I was fool enough to ask you to marry me.”