seemed I could begin again.'

'Well, look here,' said Mr Bethany, his whole face suddenly
lined and grey with age. 'You can't. It's the one solitary thing
I've got to say, as I've said it to myself morn, noon, and night
these scores of years. You can't begin again; it's all a delusion
and a snare. You say we're alone. So we are. The world's a dream,
a stage, a mirage, a rack, call it what you will--but YOU don't
change, YOU'RE no illusion. There's no crying off for YOU no
ravelling out, no clean leaves. You've got this--this trouble,
this affliction--my dear, dear fellow what shall I say to tell
you how I grieve and groan for you oh yes, and actually laughed,
I confess it, a vile hysterical laughter, to think of it. You've
got this almost intolerable burden to bear; it's come like a
thief in the night; but bear it you must, and ALONE! They say
death's a going to bed; I doubt it; but anyhow life's a long
undressing. We came in puling and naked, and every stitch must
come off before we get out again. We must stand on our feet in
all our Rabelaisian nakedness, and watch the world fade. Well
then, and not another word of sense shall you worm out of my
worn-out old brains after today--all I say is, don't give in! Why,
if you stood here now, freed from this devilish disguise, the
old, fat, sluggish fellow that sat and yawned his head off under
my eyes in his pew the Sunday before last, if I know anything
about human nature I'd say it to your face, and a fig for your
vanity and resignation--your last state would be worse than the
first. There!'

He bunched up a big white handkerchief and mopped it over his
head. 'That's done,' he said, 'and we won't go back. What I want