"Now you must get rid of all your conventional ideas, G.J. Because
you're rather conventional. You must be completely straight--I mean
intellectually--otherwise I can't treat you as an intellectual equal,
and I want to. You must be a realist--if any man can be." She spoke
almost with tenderness.

He felt mysteriously shy, and with a brusque movement of the head
shifted his glance from her to the river.

"Well?" he questioned, his gaze fixed on the water that continually
slipped in large, swirling, glinting sheets under the bridge.

"I'm going to kill myself."

At first the words made no impression on him. He replied:

"You were right when you said this place was an illusion. It is."

And then he began to be afraid. Did she mean it? She was capable of
anything. And he was involved in her, inescapably. Yes, he was afraid.
Nevertheless, as she kept silence he went on--with bravado:

"And how do you intend to do it?"

"That will be my affair. But I venture to say that my way of doing it
will make Wrikton historic," she said, curiously gentle.

"Trust you!" he exclaimed, suddenly looking at her. "Con, why _will_
you always be so theatrical?"