There was a short silence after her last speech. Then Helena said
softly--half laughing:
"You haven't talked philosophy to me, Geoffrey, for such a long time!"
"What's the use?" said Geoffrey, who was lying on his face, his eyes
covered by his hands--"I'm not feeling philosophical."
"All the same, you made me once read half a volume of Bergson. I didn't
understand much of it, except that--whatever else he is, he's a great
poet. And I do know something about poetry! But I remember one sentence
very well--Life--isn't it Life?--is 'an action which is making itself,
across an action of the same kind which is unmaking itself.' And he
compares it to a rocket in a fire-works display rushing up in flame
through the falling cinders of the dead rockets."
She paused.
"Go on--"
"Give the cinders a little time to fall, Geoffrey!" she said in a
faltering voice.
He looked up ardently.
"Why? It's only the living fire that matters! Darling--let's come to
close quarters. You gave a bit of your warm heart to Philip, and you
imagined that it meant much more than it really did.
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