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“No one, now mother is dead. Nothing nearer than aunts and cousins in America. I suppose I shall see them all again one day. But they hardly count over here.” “Why don’t you get married?” he said. “How old are you?” “I’m twenty-five. How old are you?” “Thirty-three.” “You might almost be any age.— I don’t know why I don’t get married. In a way, I hate earning my own living — yet I go on — and I like my work —” “What are you doing now?” “I’m painting scenery for a new play — rather fun — I enjoy it. But I often wonder what will become of me.” “In what way?” She was almost affronted. “What becomes of me? Oh, I don’t know. And it doesn’t matter, not to anybody but myself.” “What becomes of anybody, anyhow? We live till we die. What do you want?” “Why, I keep saying I want to get married and feel sure of something. But I don’t know — I feel dreadful sometimes — as if every minute would be the last. I keep going on and on — I don’t know what for — and IT keeps going on and on — goodness knows what it’s all for.” “You shouldn’t bother yourself,” he said. “You should just let it go on and on —” “But I MUST bother,” she said. “I must think and feel —” “You’ve no occasion,” he said. “How —?” she said, with a sudden grunting, unhappy laugh. Then she lit a cigarette.