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by the hem of his coat. Something cried out in her then and rose up and wrenched itself free of the manacles. Of course she loved Clive. Even if he forgot her. Even if she could do nothing for him. It was only in a nightmare that she could hold him off and watch him.

‘One goes on loving,’ she said. ‘It is the love we give we keep.’ She was speaking more to herself than to Captain Ingpen. But he too needed help, and she was sorry for him.

‘So one flatters oneself. One goes on as long as one has hopes of receiving something back. I don’t count myself more stable than the rest of the phantasmagoria. Perhaps what we go on hoping for is God;—the thread the beads are strung on. I suspect that the thread is even more of an illusion than the beads.’

‘All the same, we do prefer life to Nirvana. Our preference may have a meaning.’

‘Don’t look for the thread,’ he jibed. ‘It’s not there.’

‘It’s as much there as the beads. There is something we care for, call it beads or thread.—Are you trying to frighten me?’ she asked, and her glance, with its kindness, had recovered its integrity.