She might go up to Karva Hill to look for it; but it would not be there.
She couldn't even remember what it had been like.


IV.

New Year's night. She was lying awake in her white cell.

She hated Maurice Jourdain. His wearily searching eyes made her restless.
His man's voice made her restless with its questions. "Do you know what
it will be like--afterwards?" "Do you really want me?"

She didn't want him. But she wanted Somebody. Somebody. Somebody. He had
left her with this ungovernable want.

Somebody. If you lay very still and shut your eyes he would come to you.
You would see him. You knew what he was like. He had Jimmy's body and
Jimmy's face, and Mark's ways. He had the soul of Shelley and the mind of
Spinoza and Immanuel Kant.

They talked to each other. Her reverie ran first into long, fascinating
conversations about Space and Time and the Thing-in-itself, and the
Transcendental Ego. He could tell you whether you were right or wrong;
whether Substance and the Thing-in-itself were the same thing or
different.

"Die--If thou wouldst be with that which thou dost seek." He wrote that.
He wrote all Shelley's poems except the bad ones. He wrote Swinburne's
_Atalanta in Calydon_. He could understand your wanting to know what the
Thing-in-itself was. If by dying to-morrow, to-night, this minute, you