I'd never figured it
out before, but it's so."
In the process of figuring it out he'd more or less forgotten Rose. He
had been tramping along communing with his pipe; thinking aloud. If he'd
been watching her face he wouldn't have gone so far.
"Well, if it's like that," she said, and the quality of her voice drew
his full attention instantly--"if love has to be like that, then the
game doesn't seem worth going on with. You can't live with it, and you
can't live--without it." Her voice dropped a little, but gained in
intensity. "At least I can't. I don't believe I can." She stopped and
faced him. "What can one _do_?" she demanded. "Wait, I suppose you'll
say, till you're fifty. Well, you're fifty, and the thing can still
torment you; spring on you when you aren't looking; twist you about."
She turned away with a despairing gesture and stood gazing out,
tear-blinded, over the little valley the hilltop they had reached
commanded.
"You want to remember this," he said at last. "I've been talking about
myself.
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