"You witch!" I cried. "What are you doing to me?"
"I?" She retreated a step, with a laugh.
"Yes, you. You are casting a spell on me, so that I may eat my words."
"I don't know what you are talking about, but you haven't answered my
question. It _is_ good to be alive."
"Well, it is," I assented, losing all sense of consistency.
She flourished the egg-and-brandy glass. "I'm so glad. Now I know you
are really well, and will face life as you faced death, like the brave
man that you are."
I cried to her to hold. I had not intended to go as far as that. I
confronted death with a smile; I meet life with the wriest of wry faces.
She would have none of my arguments.
"No matter how damnable it is--it's splendid to be alive, just to feel
that you can fight, just to feel that you don't care a damn for any old
thing that can happen, because you're strong and brave. I do want you
to get back all that you've lost, all that you've lost through me, and
you'll do it. I know that you'll do it. You'll just go out and smash up
the silly old world and bring it to your feet.
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