hing," said Bert, "those flowers, I suppose.--I was jes'
thinking of 'er."

"So was I."

"WHAT! Edna?"

"No. I was thinking of MY Edna. We've all got Ednas, I suppose, for our
imaginations to play about. This was a girl. But all that's past for
ever. It's hard to think I can't see her just for a minute--just let her
know I'm thinking of her."

"Very likely," said Bert, "you'll see 'er all right."

"No," said Kurt with decision, "I KNOW."

"I met her," he went on, "in a place like this--in the Alps--Engstlen
Alp. There's a waterfall rather like this one--a broad waterfall down
towards Innertkirchen. That's why I came here this morning. We slipped
away and had half a day together beside it. And we picked flowers. Just
such flowers as you picked. The same for all I know. And gentian."

"I know" said Bert, "me and Edna--we done things like that. Flowers. And
all that. Seems years off now."

"She was beautiful and daring and shy, Mein Gott! I can hardly hold
myself for the desire to see her and hear her voice again before I
die. Where is she?... Look here, Smallways, I shall write a sort of
letter--And there's her portrait." He touched his breast pocket.

"You'll see 'er again all right," said Bert.

"No! I shall never see her again.... I don't understand why people
should meet just to be torn apart. But I know she and I will never meet
again. That I know as surely as that the sun will rise, and that cascade
come shining over the rocks after I am dead and done.... Oh! It's
all foolishness and haste and violence and cruel folly, stupidity and
blundering hate and selfish ambition--all the things that men have
done--all the things they will ever do. Gott! Smallways, what a muddle
and confusion life has always been--the battles and massacres and
disasters, the hates and harsh acts, the murders and sweatings, the
lynchings and cheatings. This morning I am tired of it all, as though
I'd just found it out for the first time. I HAVE found it out. When a
man is tired of life, I suppose it is time for him to die. I've lost
heart, and death is over me. Death is close to me, and I know I have
got to end. But think of all the hopes I had only a little time ago,
the sense of fine beginnings!... It was all a sham. There were no
beginnings.... We're just ants in ant-hill cities, in a world that
doesn't matter; that goes on and rambles into nothingness. New York--New
York doesn't even strike me as horrible. New York was nothing b