"Where did we stay in Paris?" he asked the woman who was sitting by him in a canvas chair, now, in Africa.

"At the Crillon. You know that." "Why do I know that?" "That's where we always stayed." "No. Not always." "There and at the Pavillion Henri-Quatre in St. Germain. You said you loved it there." "Love is a dunghill," said Harry. "And I'm the cock that gets on it to crow." "If you have to go away," she said, "is it absolutely necessary to kill off everything you leave behind? I mean do you have to take away everything? Do you have to kill your horse, and your wife and burn your saddle and your armour?" "Yes," he said. "Your damned money was my armour. My Swift and my Armour." "Don't." "All right. I'll stop that. I don't want to hurt you." "It's a little bit late now." "All right then. I'll go on hurting you. It's more amusing. The only thing I ever really liked to do with you I can't do now." "No, that's not true. You liked to do many things and everything you wanted to do I did." "Oh, for Christ sake stop bragging, will you?" He looked at her and saw her crying.

"Listen," he said. "Do you think that it is fun to do this? I don't know why I'm doing it. It's trying to kill to keep yourself alive, I imagine.

I was all right when we started talking. I didn't mean to start this, and now I'm crazy as a coot and being as cruel to you as I can be.

Don't pay any attention, darling, to what I say. I love you, really. You know I love you. I've never loved any one else the way I love you." He slipped into the familiar lie he made his bread and butter by.

"You're sweet to me." "You bitch," he said. "You rich bitch. That's poetry. I'm full of poetry now. Rot and poetry. Rotten poetry." "Stop it. Harry, why do you have to turn into a devil now?" "I don't like to leave anything," the man said. "I don't like to leave things behind."