Peter's voice, flat and dead, spoke out of the shadow of the dim room.

"You have said enough. You need not go on."

Then Rodney turned and saw him, sitting still on the floor by the
half-packed bag, with the yellow dog sleeping against him. In the dim
light his face looked pale and pinched like a dead man's.

"You've done your work," the flat voice said. "You've taken it away--the
new life we so wanted. You've shown that it can't be. You're quite right.
And you're right too that nothing helps at all.... Because of Denis, I
can't do this. But I find no good in emptiness; why should I? I want to
have things and enjoy them, at this moment, more desperately than you,
who praise emptiness and doing without, ever wanted anything."

"I am aware of that," said Rodney.

"You've got in the way," said Peter, looking up at the tall gaunt figure
by the window; and anger shook him. "You've stepped in and spoilt it all.
Yes, you needn't be afraid; you've spoilt it quite irrevocably. You knew
that to mention Denis was enough to do that. I was trying to forget him;
I could have, till it was too late. You can go home now and feel quite
easy; you've done your job. There's to be no new life for me, or Thomas,
or Lucy, or Francesco--only the same old emptiness. The same old ... oh,
damn!"

Peter, who never swore, that ugly violence being repugnant to his nature,
swore now, and woke Francesco, who put up his head to lick his friend's
face. But Peter pushed him away, surprising him violently, and caught at