He is holding a girl in his arms--he can
feel her body against him--but it is not Nancy he is holding--it never will
be Nancy any more. He releases her and starts walking up and down in a
series of short, uneasy strides, turning mechanically to keep out of the
way of chairs. Words come out of him, words he never imagined he could ever
say, he thinks dizzily that it would feel like this if he were invisibly
bleeding to death--that would come the same way in fiery spurts and pauses
that tore at the body.
"Don't you see, dear, don't you _see_? It's been eight months now and we
aren't any nearer getting married than we were at first and it isn't honest
to say we will be soon any more--I can't see any prospect--I've failed
in everything I thought would go--and we can't get married on my job for
_years_--I'm not good enough at it--and I _won't_ have you hurt--I _won't_
have you tied to me when it only means neither of us doing what we want and
both of us getting, older and our work not done. Oh, I love you, Nancy--if
there was any hope at all I'd go down on my knees to ask you to keep on but
there isn't--they've beaten us--they've beaten us--all the fat old people
who told us we were too poor and too young.
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