“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.