Mr. Moore leaned forward on his desk, moved his chair, altered his attitude.
"If it is not so," he asked, with a peculiar, mellow change in his voice, "how is it, then?"
"I don't know."
"You do know, but you won't speak: all must be locked up in yourself."
"Because it is not worth sharing."
"Because nobody can give the high price you require for your confidence. Nobody is rich enough to purchase it. Nobody has the honour, the intellect, the power you demand in your adviser. There is not a shoulder in England on which you would rest your hand for support—far less a bosom which you would permit to pillow your head. Of course you must live alone."
"I can live alone, if need be. But the question is not how to live—but how to die alone. That strikes me in a more grisly light."
"You apprehend the effects of the virus? You anticipate an indefinitely threatening, dreadful doom?"
She bowed.
"You are very nervous and womanish."
"You complimented me two minutes since on my powerful mind."
"You are very womanish. If the whole affair were coolly examined and discussed, I feel assured it would turn out that there is no danger of your dying at all."
