"Well, before 'e know me 'e threaten to shoot 'imself. Decidedly, 'e
is getting better, that young man."

Her shameless, infectious laughter caught him by the throat. He wanted
to laugh too, and then thrust her empty, laughing face down into the
water of her comic fountain till she died. There were people who were
better dead. He had said so and it was true, in spite of Francey
Wilmot and her childish sentimentality. Suddenly the woman in the
hospital and this riotous houri were definitely merged into one
composite figure of a mindless greed and viciousness. He clenched his
hands behind his back, hiding them.

"If you would only sit down we should talk so much 'appier," she said
regretfully. "You seem so far off--so 'igh up. Please sit down."

"I don't want to."

"Because you're afraid we might get jolly together, _hein_? Well, you
stand up there then, and tell me something. Tell me. You don't love
nobody. You are a very big, 'ard young man, who 'ave made 'is way in
ze world and know 'ow rotten everybody else is. You 'ave 'ad 'ard
times and 'ard times is ver' bad for everyone, except per'aps Jesus
Christ, for either they go under and are broken, un'appy people, or
they come out on top, and then zey are 'arder than anyone else. Well,
you are ze big, 'ard young man. But you run after this leetle Monsieur
Rufus as though 'e was your baby brother. Well--'e is a nice leetle
fellow--but 'e is just a leetle fellow--with a soft 'eart and a soft
'ead. Not your sort. And, you're not 'is sort. 'E's frightened of
you. 'E want someone who pat 'is 'ead and let 'im cry on 'is shoulder.