Robert—[Insistently.] Why?
Ruth—Oh, because—everything.
Robert—I could hardly back out now, even if I wanted to. And I’ll be forgotten before you know it.
Ruth—[Indignantly.] You won’t! I’ll never forget——— [She stops and turns away to hide her confusion. ]
Robert—[Softly.] Will you promise me that?
Ruth—[Evasively.] Of course. It’s mean of you to think that any of us would forget so easily.
Robert—[Disappointedly.] Oh!
Ruth—[With an attempt at lightness.] But you haven’t told me your reason for leaving yet? Aren’t you going to?
Robert—[Moodily.] I doubt if you’ll understand. It’s difficult to explain, even to myself. It’s more an instinctive longing that won’t stand dissection. Either you feel it, or you don’t. The cause of it all is in the blood and the bone, I guess, not in the brain, although imagination plays a large part in it. I can remember being conscious of it first when I was only a kid—you haven’t forgotten what a sickly specimen I was then, in those days, have you?
Ruth—[With a shudder.] They’re past. Let’s not think about them.
Robert—You’ll have to, to understand. Well, in those days, when Ma was fixing meals, she used to get me out of the way by pushing my chair to the west window and telling me to look out and be quiet. That wasn’t hard. I guess I was always quiet.
