“Nothing,” I said. “I’m afraid I am very dull.”
“No. But you should read.”
“What is there written in wartime?”
“There is Le Feu by a Frenchman, Barbusse. There is Mr. Britling Sees Through It .”
“No, he doesn’t.”
“What?”
“He doesn’t see through it. Those books were at the hospital.”
“Then you have been reading?”
“Yes, but nothing any good.”
“I thought Mr. Britling a very good study of the English middle-class soul.”
“I don’t know about the soul.”
“Poor boy. We none of us know about the soul. Are you Croyant ?”
“At night.”
Count Greffi smiled and turned the glass with his fingers. “I had expected to become more devout as I grow older but somehow I haven’t,” he said. “It is a great pity.”
“Would you like to live after death?” I asked and instantly felt a fool to mention death. But he did not mind the word.
“It would depend on the life. This life is very pleasant. I would like to live forever,” he smiled. “I very nearly have.”