care for him--and can any of us
help it?--to save him from himself. And chiefly it's your job and Lucy's.
You can do your part now only by clearing out of the way, and leaving
Lucy to do hers. She will do it, I firmly believe, in the end, if you
give her time. Lucy, I know, for I have seen it when I have been with
her, has been troubled about her own removal from the arena, about her
own being confined between walls so that she can't hear the people
outside calling; but that is mere egotism. She can hear and see all
right; she has all her senses, and she will never stop using them. It's
her business to be concerned for Denis, who is blind and deaf. It's her
business to use her own caring to make him care. She's got to drag him
out, not to let herself be shut inside with him. It can be done, and
Lucy, if anyone in the world, can do it--if she doesn't give up and
shirk. Lucy, if anyone in the world, has the right touch, the right
loosing power, to set Denis free. I think that you too have the touch and
the power--but you mustn't use yours; the time for that is gone by. Yours
is the much harder business of clearing out of the way. If you ever loved
Denis, you will do that."

He paused and looked at Peter, who was still sitting on the floor,
motionless, with bent head.

"May I go on?" said Rodney, and Peter answered nothing.

Rodney looked away again out of the window into a grey night sky that
hid the Easter moon, and went on, gently. He was tired of talking; his
discourse had been already nearly as long as an average woman; but he
went on deliberately talking and talking, to give Peter time.

"So, you see, that is an excellent reason--to you it is, I believe, the
incontrovertible reason--why you should once more give up and lose, and
not take. But, deeper than that, to me more insurmountable than that, is
the true reason, which is simply that that very thing--to lose, to do
without--is your business in life, as you've said yourself. It's your
profession. You are in the camp of the Have-Nots; you belong there. You
can't desert. You can't step out and go over to the enemy. If you did, if
you could (only you can't) it would be a betrayal. And, whatever you
gained, you'd lose by it what you have at present--your fellowship with
the other unfortunates. Isn't that a thing worth having? Isn't it
something to be down on the ground with the poor and empty-handed, not
above them, where you can't hear them crying and laughing? Wo