“There is only one remedy.”
“And that?”
“The same as will cure the disease of life.”
“You mean death?”
“Yes,” said Quixtus.
“It’s a remedy; but not the only one.” Her pale cheeks flushed adorably. “In fact, it’s only by a twist of language you can call it a remedy. The only remedy against the malady of life is life itself. The bane is its own antidote. The only cure for loss of illusions is fresh illusions, more illusions, and always illusions.”
“Supposing for argument’s sake you are right—where are they to come from?”
“They form of themselves, like fresh tissue of the flesh, without your volition.”
“Only in healthy flesh,” said Quixtus, with his tired smile. “So in a gangrened soul there can be built up no fresh tissue of illusions.”
Womanlike, she begged the question, maintainin
