"I got to," he said. The finality of the words was like something solid beneath their feet once more.
"Of course—I didn't mean—" She moved a little away from him, smoothing her hair with a shaking hand. A new solemnity had descended upon them both. They felt dimly that life had changed for them, that it would never be the same again.
"I got to think about things," he said.
"Yes—I know."
"There's mother. Fifty dollars a month. We just can't—"
Tears were welling slowly from her eyes and running down her cheeks. She was not able to stop them.
"No," she said. "I've got to do something to help at home, too." She groped for the shawl at her feet. He picked it up and wrapped it carefully around her.
They walked up and down in the starlight, trying to talk soberly, feeling very old and sad, a weight on their hearts. Ripley was a station in the San Joaquin valley, he told her. He was going to be night operator there. He could not keep a shade of self-importance from his voice, but he explained conscientiously that there would not be much telegraphing. Very few train orders were sent there at night. But it was a good job for a beginner and pretty soon maybe he would be able to get a better one. Say, when he was twenty or twenty-one seventy-five dollars a month perhaps. It wouldn't be long to wait. They were clinging together again.
"You—we mustn't," she said.
"It's all right—just one—when you're engaged." She sobbed on his shoulder, and their kisses were salty with tears.