«Imagine,» he continued, «telling her that you were the most loyal, faithful fellow in the world! Saying that you had changed completely since you knew her—that no woman could tempt you!»

Here Curley couldn't restrain a sickly grin.

«Well it's true,» I said, almost angrily. «Kronski was telling the truth.»

«That you love her so much you...»

«And what makes you think I don't?»

«Because I know you. You'll never change.» I sat down near the bed and looked at her. Curley moved about restlessly. I could feel the anger in him smouldering. I knew what was at the bottom of it.

«She's quite all right now, I suppose?» I inquired after a time.

«How do I know, she's not my wife.» The words flashed back like the gleam of a knife.

«What's the matter with you, Curley? Are you jealous of Kronski? Or are you jealous of me? You can hold her hand and pet her when she wakes up. You know me...»

«Damned right I do!» came Curley's sullen reply. «You should have been here holding her hand yourself. You're never there when any one wants you. I suppose you were holding Maude's hand— now that she doesn't want you any more. I remember how you treated her. I thought it funny then—I was too young to know better. And I remember Dolores too...»

«Easy!» I whispered, motioning with my head towards the prostrate figure.

«She won't wake up so soon, don't worry.» «All right... now what about Dolores?» I said, lowering my voice. «Just what did I do to Dolores that hurt you so?»

He could say nothing for a moment. He was simply bursting with scorn and contempt. Finally he blurted it out.

«You ruin them! You destroy something in them, that's all I can say.»

«You mean that after we broke up you tried to hook Dolores and she wouldn't have you?»

«Before or after—what difference does it make,» he snarled. «I know how she felt—she used to spill it out to me. Even when she hated you she couldn't see me. She used me for a pillow. She wept all over me, as if I were made of Christ knows what... You used to sail out after those sessions in the back room beaming all over. Little Curley was left to lick up the crumbs. Little Curley would tidy things up for you. You never thought what happened when the door closed on you, did you?»

«No-o-o,» I drawled, smiling at him tauntingly. «What did happen? You tell me.»

It's always interesting to learn what does really happen when the door closes behind you. I was ready to sit back and listen with ears cocked.

«Of course,» I ventured, to stimulate him further, «you tried to make the most of the situation.»

«If you want to know,» he replied with brutal frankness, «yes, I did. Even if it was a wet deck! I encouraged her to weep, because then I could put my arms around her. And finally I managed it. I didn't do so bad either, considering the disadvantage I was under. I can tell you a few things about your beautiful Dolores...»

I nodded. «Let's hear everything. It sounds exciting.»

«What you probably don't know is the way she acts when she gets a weeping spell. You missed something.»

I tried to give him free rein, concealing my emotions behind a mask of disinterested tolerance. Curiously enough, in spite of his desire to wound me, he found it difficult to tell his story coherently, or even to take advantage of the opportunity I had given him. The more he talked the more sorry he became for himself.» He couldn't get away from his own sense of frustration. He wanted to besmirch her, and being able to obtain my approval added spice to the procedure. He thought I too would enjoy this profanation of an old idol.

«So you never really did get your end in?» I threw him a consoling glance. «Too bad, because she certainly was a good piece of hump...If I had only known about it I might have helped you. You should have said something. I thought you were too callow to ,feel that way about her. Naturally I suspected that you put your arms around her when my back was turned. I didn't give you credit, though, for taking your cock out and trying to shove it in. No, I thought you were too worshipful for that. Jesus, you were only a kid then. How old were you—sixteen, seventeen? I should have remembered about your aunt. But that was different. She raped you, wasn't that it?»

I lit a cigarette and settled back in the arm chair.

«You know, Curley, this makes me wonder a bit...»

«You mean about Maude? I never tried anything...»

«No, I don't mean that» I don't give a damn what you tried or didn't try...»

«I think you ought to be going soon,» I added. «When she comes to I'll want to talk to her. It's lucky you came when you did. H'm! I suppose I ought to thank you.»

Curley gathered up his things. «By the way,» he said, «her heart's not so good. And there's something else wrong with her too... Kronski will tell you.»

I went to the door with him. We shook hands. I felt impelled to say something.

«Listen, I don't hold it against you about Dolores, but... but don't be dropping in here when I'm away, see! You can worship her all you want—from a distance. I don't want any of this damned monkey business, do you understand?»

He gave me a murderous look and strode sullenly off. I had never spoken that way to him before and I regretted it, not because I had wounded him but because I suddenly realized that I had put an idea into his head. Now he would think himself dangerous; he wouldn't be happy until he had tested his powers.

Dolores! Well, I had learned nothing of any consequence. Still, there was something about it I didn't like. Dolores was soft. Too yielding to suit me. There was a time when I had been on the point of asking her to marry me. I recalled what it was that had prevented me from making such a blunder. It was that I knew she would say yes, weakly, because she was mentally still a virgin, unable to resist the pressure of a stiff cock. That— her weak yes, to be followed by a lifetime of blubbering regrets. Instead of helping me to forget, she would be a constant mute reminder of the crime I intended to commit. (The crime of leaving my wife.) God knows, part of me was soft as a sponge. I didn't need any one to cultivate that side of me! She was really disgusting, Dolores. Her eyes glowed with such adolescent fervor as she watched me pouring balm over the maimed and wounded. Yes, I could see her clearly now. She was like a nurse attending a physician. She wanted to mother all those poor bastards I was killing myself to aid in one way or another. She wanted only to slave all day by my side. Then offer her little cunt—as a reward, as a mark of approbation. What the hell did she know about love? She was just a puppy. I felt sorry for Curley.

Kronski had told the truth! That's what I kept repeating to myself as I sat beside the bed and waited for her to return to life. She was not dead, thank God. Merely asleep. She looked as though she were floating in luminol.

It was so unusual for me to play the role of the bereaved one that I became fascinated by the thought of how I would act if she were actually to die now before my eyes. Supposing she were never to open her eyes again? Supposing she passed from this deep trance into death? I tried to concentrate on that thought. I wanted desperately to know how I would feel if she were to die. I tried to imagine that I was a fresh widower, that I had not even called the undertaker.

First of all, however, I got up to put my ear to her mouth. Yes, she was still breathing. I pulled the chair close to the foot of the bed and concentrated as best I could on death—her death. No extraordinary emotions manifested themselves. To be truthful, I forgot about my supposed personal loss and became absorbed in a rather blissful contemplation of the desirability of death. I began to think about my own death, and how I would enjoy it. The prone figure lying there, hardly breathing, floating in the wake of a drug like a small boat attached to the stern of a vessel, was myself. I had wanted to die and now I was dying. I was no longer aware of this world but not yet in the other one. I was passing slowly out to sea, drowning without pain of suffocation. My thoughts were neither of the world I was leaving nor of the one I was approaching. In fact, there was nothing comparable to thought going on. Nor was it dreaming. It was more like a diaspora; the knot was unravelling, the self was dribbling away. There wasn't even a self any more: I was the smoke from a good cigar, and like smoke I was vanishing in thin air, and what was left of the cigar was crumbling to dust and dissolution.