_] Yes, it's true. I can talk cleverly and I've
written a book ... but I'm barren. [_Then the healthy mind re-asserts
itself._] No, it's not true. Our thoughts are children ... and marry and
intermarry. And we're peopling the world ... not badly.
TREBELL. Well ... either life is too little a thing to matter or it's so big
that such specks of it as we may be are of no account. These are two points
of view. And then one has to consider if death can't be sometimes the last
use made of life.
_There is a tone of menace in this which recalls_ WEDGECROFT _to the
present trouble._
WEDGECROFT. I doubt the virtue of sacrifice ... or the use of it.
TREBELL. How else could I tell Horsham that my work matters? Does he think
so now?... not he.
WEDGECROFT. You mean if they'd had to throw you over?
_Once again_ TREBELL _looks up with that secretive smile._
TREBELL. Yes ... if they'd had to.
WEDGECROFT. [_Unreasonably nervous, so he thinks._] My dear fellow, Horsham
would have thought it was the shame and disgrace if you'd shot yourself
after the inquest. That's the proper sentimental thing for you so-called
strong men to do on like occasions. Why, if your name were to come out
to-morrow, your best meaning friends would be sending you pistols by post,
requesting you to use them like a gentleman. Horsham would grieve over ten
dinner-tables in succession and then return to his philosophy.
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