"You are a strong man," she said slowly, "and you don't think much of Death." "Not much," said Nick, striking a match on the heel of his boot.
The flame flared yellow on his face, emphasizing its many lines.

His eyelids flickered rapidly, never wholly revealing the eyes behind.
"You wouldn't be afraid to die ?" she pursued, still watching him.
His cigarette glowed and he removed the match; but the flame remained, burning with absolute steadiness between his fingers.
"I certainly shan't be afraid when my turn comes," he said, with confidence.
"Tell me," she said suddenly, "your idea of Death!" His look flashed over her and back to the match he still held.

The flame had nearly reached his fingers.
"Death," he said, "is the opening--and the closing--of a Door." She leaned eagerly forward.

"You think that ?" "Just that," said Nick.

He smiled and blew out the match, just in time.
"But--as you perceive--I am afraid of pain--that is, when I think about it." She scarcely seemed to hear.