He spoke with a perfectly benevolent detachment deriving from hers.  And as he spoke he thought of a man whom he had once known and who had committed suicide, and of all that he had read about suicides and what he had thought of them.  Suicides had been incomprehensible to him, and either despicable or pitiable.  And he said to himself:  “Here is one of them! (Or is it an illusion?) But she has made all my notions of suicide seem ridiculous.”

She answered his spoken question with vivacity:  “Why do I tell you?  I don’t know.  That’s the point I’ve been arguing to myself all night and all day. I’m not telling you.  Something in me is forcing me to tell you.  Perhaps it’s much more important that you should comprehend me than that you should be spared the passing worry that I’m causing you by showing you the inside of my head.  You’re the only friend I have left.  I knew you before I knew Carly.  I practically committed suicide from my particular world at the beginning of the war.  I was going back to my particular world—­you remember, G.J., in that little furnished flat—­I was going back to it, but you wouldn’t let me.  It was you who definitely cut me off from my past.  I might have been gadding about safely with Sarah Churcher and her lot at this very hour, but you would have it otherwise, and so I finished up with neurasthenia.  You commanded and I obeyed.”

“Well,” he said, ignoring all her utterance except the last words, “obey me again.”

“What do you want me to do?” she demanded wistfully and yet defiantly.  Her features were tending to disappear in the tide of night, but she happened to sit up and lean forward and bring them a little closer to him.  “You’ve no right to stop me from doing what I want to do.  What right have you to stop me?  Besides, you can’t stop me.  Nothing can stop me.  It is settled.  Everything is arranged.”

He, too, sat up and leaned forward.  In a voice rendered soft by the realisation of the fact that he had indeed known her before Carlos Smith knew her and had imagined himself once to be in love with her, and of the harshness of her destiny and the fading of her glory, he said simply and yet, in spite of himself, insinuatingly: 

“No!  I don’t claim any right to stop you.  I understand better, perhaps, than you think.  But let me come down again next week-end.  Do let me,” he insisted, still more softly.

Even while he was speaking he expected her to say, “You’re only suggesting that in order to gain time.”

But she said: 

“How can you be sure it wouldn’t be my inquest and funeral I should be ‘letting’ you come down to?”

He replied: 

“I could trust you.”