I WANTED to see her, to finish it one way or another, and, at my aunt's house, I found her standing in an immense white room; waiting for me. There was a profusion of light. It left her absolutely shadowless, like a white statue in a gallery; inscrutable.

“I have come,” I said. I had it in my mind to say: “Because there is nothing for me to do on earth.” But I did not, I looked at her instead.

“You have come,” she repeated. She had no expression in her voice, in her eyes. It was as if I were nothing to her; as if I were the picture of a man. Well, that was it ; I was a picture, she a statue. “I did it,” I said at last.

“And you want? ” she asked.

“You know,” I answered, “I want my …” I could not think of the word. It was either a reward or a just due. She looked at me, quite suddenly. It made an effect as if the Venus of Milo had turned his head toward me. She began to speak, as if the statue were speaking, as if a passing bell were speaking; recording a passing passionlessly.

“You have done nothing at all,” she said. “Nothing.”

“And yet,” I said, “I was at the heart of it all.”

“Nothing at all,” she repeated. “You were at the heart, yes; but at the heart of a machine.” Her words carried a sort of strong conviction. I seemed suddenly to see an immense machine— unconcerned, soulless, but all its parts made up of bodies of men: a great mill grinding out the dust of centuries; a great wine-press. She was continuing her speech.

“As for you—you are only a detail, like all the others; you were set in a place because you would act as you did. It was in your character. We inherit the earth and you, your day is over … You remember that day, when I found you—the first day? ”

I remembered that day. It was on the downland, under the immense sky, amid the sound of larks.