It was nearly two o'clock when Herbertson left. Lilly, depressed, remained before the fire. Aaron got out of bed and came uneasily to the fire.
"It gives me the bellyache, that damned war," he said.
"So it does me," said Lilly. "All unreal."
"Real enough for those that had to go through it."
"No, least of all for them," said Lilly sullenly. "Not as real as a bad dream. Why the hell don't they wake up and realise it!"
"That's a fact," said Aaron. "They're hypnotised by it."
"And they want to hypnotise me. And I won't be hypnotised. The war was a lie and is a lie and will go on being a lie till somebody busts it."
"It was a fact—you can't bust that. You can't bust the fact that it happened."
"Yes you can. It never happened. It never happened to me. No more than my dreams happen. My dreams don't happen: they only seem."
"But the war did happen, right enough," smiled Aaron palely.
"No, it didn't. Not to me or to any man, in his own self. It took place in the automatic sphere, like dreams do. But the actual man in every man was just absent—asleep—or drugged—inert—dream-logged. That's it."
"You tell 'em so," said Aaron.
"I do. But it's no good. Because they won't wake up now even—perhaps never. They'll all kill themselves in their sleep."
"They wouldn't be any better if they did wake up and be themselves—that is, supposing they are asleep, which I can't see. They are what they are—and they're all alike—and never very different from what they are now."
Lilly stared at Aaron with black eyes.
"Do you believe in them less than I do, Aaron?" he asked slowly.
"I don't even want to believe in them."
"But in yourself?" Lilly was almost wistful—and Aaron uneasy.
