HECTOR. Listen, O sage. How long dare you concentrate on a
feeling without risking having it fixed in your consciousness all
the rest of your life?
CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. Ninety minutes. An hour and a half. [He goes
into the pantry].
Hector, left alone, contracts his brows, and falls into a
day-dream. He does not move for some time. Then he folds his
arms. Then, throwing his hands behind him, and gripping one with
the other, he strides tragically once to and fro. Suddenly he
snatches his walking stick from the teak table, and draws it; for
it is a swordstick. He fights a desperate duel with an imaginary
antagonist, and after many vicissitudes runs him through the body
up to the hilt. He sheathes his sword and throws it on the sofa,
falling into another reverie as he does so. He looks straight
into the eyes of an imaginary woman; seizes her by the arms; and
says in a deep and thrilling tone, "Do you love me!" The captain
comes out of the pantry at this moment; and Hector, caught with
his arms stretched out and his fists clenched, has to account for
his attitude by going through a series of gymnastic exercises.
CAPTAIN SHOTOVER. That sort of strength is no good. You will
never be as strong as a gorilla.
HECTOR. What is the dynamite for?
CAPTAIN SHOTOVER.
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