of life and death. It's a question of eternal torment, mind you!
You don't mean to say you're going to wait limply here till the
Devil comes to fetch you?'

`I can't do anything else. I've no choice.'

`Come! This is "trusting and encouraging" with a vengeance!
This is Diabolism run mad!' I filled his glass with wine.
`Surely, now that you've SEEN the brute--'

`It's no good abusing him.'

`You must admit there's nothing Miltonic about him, Soames.'

`I don't say he's not rather different from what I expected.'

`He's a vulgarian, he's a swell-mobsman, he's the sort of man
who hangs about the corridors of trains going to the Riviera and
steals ladies' jewel-cases. Imagine eternal torment presided
over by HIM!'

`You don't suppose I look forward to it, do you?'

`Then why not slip quietly out of the way?'

Again and again I filled his glass, and always, mechanically, he
emptied it; but the wine kindled no spark of enterprise in him.
He did not eat, and I myself ate hardly at all. I did not in my
heart believe that any dash for freedom could save him. The
chase would be swift, the capture certain. But better anything