only the portrait of a man—of a man who has been dead—oh, a long time; and I, for you, only a possibility . . . a conception . . . You work to bring me on—to make me possible."
"But—" I said. The idea was so difficult to grasp. "I will—there must be a way—"
"No," she answered, "there is no way—you must go back; must try. There will be Churchill and what he stands for—He won't die, he won't even care much for losing this game . . . not much . . . And you will have to forget me. There is no other way—no bridge. We can't meet, you and I . . ."
The words goaded me to fury. I began to pace furiously up and down. I wanted to tell her that I would throw away everything for her, would crush myself out, would be a lifeless tool, would do anything. But I could tear no words out of the stone that seemed to surround me.
"You may even tell him, if you like, what I and Gurnard are going to do. It will make no difference; he will fall. But you would like him to—to make a good fight for it, wouldn't you? That is all I can do . . . for your sake."
I began to speak—as if I had not spoken for
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