“Through this week,” he said, “they have been watching in those churches a supreme renouncement, the ultimate agony of giving up, the last triumph of utter loss.  I’m not going to talk about that; it’s not my business or my right ...  But it surely counts, that giving up whatever we may or may not believe about it.  It shines, a terrible counsel of perfection for those who have, burning and hurting.  But for those who have not, it doesn’t burn and hurt; it shines to cheer and comfort; it is the banner of the leader of the losing legion, lifted up that the rest may follow after.  Does that help at all?...  Perhaps at this moment nothing helps at all....  Have I said enough?  Need I go on?”

Peter’s voice, flat and dead, spoke out of the shadow of the dim room.

“You have said enough.  You need not go on.”

Then Rodney turned and saw him, sitting still on the floor by the half-packed bag, with the yellow dog sleeping against him.  In the dim light his face looked pale and pinched like a dead man’s.

“You’ve done your work,” the flat voice said.  “You’ve taken it away—­the new life we so wanted.  You’ve shown that it can’t be.  You’re quite right.  And you’re right too that nothing helps at all....  Because of Denis, I can’t do this.  But I find no good in emptiness; why should I?  I want to have things and enjoy them, at this moment, more desperately than you, who praise emptiness and doing without, ever wanted anything.”

“I am aware of that,” said Rodney.

“You’ve got in the way,” said Peter, looking up at the tall gaunt figure by the window; and anger shook him.  “You’ve stepped in and spoilt it all.  Yes, you needn’t be afraid; you’ve spoilt it quite irrevocably.  You knew that to mention Denis was enough to do that.  I was trying to forget him; I could have, till it was too late.  You can go home now and feel quite easy; you’ve done your job.  There’s to be no new life for me, or Thomas, or Lucy, or Francesco—­only the same old emptiness.  The same old ... oh, damn!”

Peter, who never swore, that ugly violence being repugnant to his nature, swore now, and woke Francesco, who put up his head to lick his friend’s face.  But Peter pushed him away, surprising him violently, and caught at his half-filled bag and snatched at the contents and flung them on the top of one another on the floor.  They lay in a jumbled chaos—­Thomas’s clothes and Peter’s socks and razor and Thomas’s rabbit and Peter’s books; and Francesco snuffled among them and tossed them about, thinking it a new game.

“Go away now.”  Peter flung out the words like another oath.  “Go away to your poverty which you like, and leave us to ours which we hate.  There’s no more left for you to take away from us; it’s all gone.  Unless you’d like me to throw Thomas out of the window, since you think breakages are so good.”

Rodney merely said, “I’m not going away just yet.  Could you let me stay here for the night and sleep on the sofa?  It’s late to go back to-night.”