«He was struck off the register.»
«Ex-wife, ex-doctor. How interesting. What was he struck off for?»
«I don't know. Something to do with drugs.»
«But what to do with drugs? What did he do exactly?»
«I don't know!» I said, beginning to be exasperated in a familiar way. «I'm not interested. I never liked him. He's some sort of scoundrel. By the way, I hope to God you didn't talk to him about what really happened tonight. I just told him there'd been an accident.»
«Well, what really happened wasn't very-I dare say he guessed-«I hope not! He's capable of blackmailing you.»
«That man? Oh no!»
«Anyway, he disappeared out of my life long ago, thank God.»
«But now he's back. Bradley, you are censorious, you know.»
«I disapprove of some things, oddly enough.»
«Disapproving of things is all right. But you mustn't disapprove of people. It cuts you off.»
«I want to be cut off from people like Marloe. Being a real person oneself is a matter of setting up limits and drawing lines and saying no. I don't want to be a nebulous bit of ectoplasm straying around in other people's lives. That sort of vague sympathy with everybody precludes any real understanding of anybody.»
«The sympathy needn't be vague-«And it precludes any real loyalty to anybody.»
«One must know the details, justice, after all-«
«I detest chatter and gossip. One must hold one's tongue. Even sometimes just not think about people. Real thoughts come out of silence.»
«Bradley, not that, please. Listen! I was saying justice demands details. You say you aren't interested in why he was struck off the register. You ought to be! You say he's some sort of scoundrel. I'd like to be told what sort. You obviously don't know.»
Making a strong effort to check my exasperation I said, «I was glad to get rid of my wife and he went too. Can't you understand that? It seems simple enough to me.»
«I rather liked him. I asked him to come and see us.»
«Oh Christ!»
«I don't think curiosity is a kind of charity. I think it's a kind of malice.»
«That's what makes a writer, knowing the details.»
«It may make your kind of writer. It doesn't make mine.»
«Here we go again,» said Arnold.
«Why pile up a jumble of 'details'? When you start really imagining something you have to forget the details anyhow, they just get in the way. Art isn't the reproduction of oddments out of life.»
