"Oh, look at the moon!" she cried. "All bowed forward with the cloud
wrapped round her head. Something's calling her across the sky, but
the mist holds her and the wind beats her back--look how she staggers
and charges head-downward. She's fighting the wind. And she goes--she
goes!"
"She doesn't go," said Rowcliffe. "At least you can't see her going,
and the cloud isn't wrapped round her head, it's nowhere near her. And
the wind isn't driving her, it's driving the cloud on. It's the cloud
that's going. Why can't you see things as they are?"
She was detestable to him in that moment.
"Because nobody sees them as they are. And you're spoiling the idea."
"The idea being so much more valuable than the truth."
He longed to say cruel and biting things to her.
"It isn't valuable to anybody but me, so you might have left it to
me."
"Oh, I'll leave it to you, if you're in love with it."
"I'm not in love with it because it's mine. Anyhow, if I _am_ in love
I'm in love with the moon and not with my idea of the moon."
"You don't know how to be in love with anything--even the moon. But I
suppose it's all right as long as you're happy."
"Of course I'm happy. Why shouldn't I be?"
"Because you haven't got anything to make you happy."
"Oh, haven't I?"
"You might have. But you haven't. You're too obstinate to be happy."
"But I've just told you that I _am_ happy."
"What have you _got?_" he persisted.
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