“Like being told?”
“Like being certain.
“I know,” he repeated, and for a time they walked in silence towards the waterfall.
Kurt, wrapped in his thoughts, walked heedlessly, and at last broke out again. “I've always felt young before, Smallways, but this morning I feel old—old. So old! Nearer to death than old men feel. And I've always thought life was a lark. It isn't.... This sort of thing has always been happening, I suppose—these things, wars and earthquakes, that sweep across all the decency of life. It's just as though I had woke up to it all for the first time. Every night since we were at New York I've dreamt of it.... And it's always been so—it's the way of life. People are torn away from the people they care for; homes are smashed, creatures full of life, and memories, and little peculiar gifts are scalded and smashed, and torn to pieces, and starved, and spoilt. London! Berlin! San Francisco! Think of all the human histories we ended in New York!... And the others go on again as though such things weren't possible. As I went on! Like animals! Just like animals.”
He said nothing for a long time, and then he dropped out, “The Prince is a lunatic!”
They came to a place where they had to climb, and then to a long peat level beside a rivulet. There a quantity of delicate little pink flowers caught Bert's eye. “Gaw!” he said, and stooped to pick one. “In a place like this.”
Kurt stopped and half turned. His face winced.
“I never see such a flower,” said Bert. “It's so delicate.”
“Pick some more if you want to,” said Kurt.
Bert did so, while Kurt stood and watched him.