” She was silent for a time, with her nose on the pillow, and that brought her to: “What’s the good of pretending? “I love him,” she said aloud to the dim forms of her room, and repeated it, and went on to imagine herself doing acts of tragically dog-like devotion to the biologist, who, for the purposes of the drama, remained entirely unconscious of and indifferent to her proceedings. But I found it no laughing matter, I can assure you. But we cannot discuss this here. She was an indignant queen, no doubt she was alarmed and disgusted within limits; but she was highly excited, and there was something, some low adventurous strain in her being, some element, subtle at least if base, going about the rioting ways and crowded insurgent meeting-places of her mind declaring that the whole affair was after all—they are the only words that express it—a very great lark indeed. They put her down, and she leaped at them; she smote a helmet to the ground. Not a bad man as men go, but he would sell whisky and gin. \" He said. "Who's there?" cried Rachel. I have pleaded with her—no wonder that I have pleaded with her in vain. She imagined herself on a barren 41 plain, post-Apocalypse, convulsing, waiting to die with the cockroach. Nothing else matters. Too intent on her search, and convinced besides that she was quite alone, she had been an easy prey. “I am a fool,” he said.
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