He was hollow-cheeked
and pale, almost unearthly. And the woman, with her serious,
conscience-harrowing question tortured him on the quick.
'They are not roused to consciousness,' he said. 'Consciousness comes
to them, willy-nilly.'
'But do you think they are better for having it quickened, stimulated?
Isn't it better that they should remain unconscious of the hazel, isn't
it better that they should see as a whole, without all this pulling to
pieces, all this knowledge?'
'Would you rather, for yourself, know or not know, that the little red
flowers are there, putting out for the pollen?' he asked harshly. His
voice was brutal, scornful, cruel.
Hermione remained with her face lifted up, abstracted. He hung silent
in irritation.
'I don't know,' she replied, balancing mildly. 'I don't know.'
'But knowing is everything to you, it is all your life,' he broke out.
She slowly looked at him.
'Is it?' she said.
'To know, that is your all, that is your life--you have only this, this
knowledge,' he cried.
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