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Eugene: I know what your son is to you and it frightens me. Let me explain a little. I don't think he'll change. At twenty-one or twenty-two, so many things appear solid and permanent and terrible. Which forty sees are nothing but disappearing miasma. Forty can't tell twenty about this. Twenty can find out only by getting to be forty.
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Lucy: Don't you remember? We'd had a quarrel and we didn't speak to each other all the way home from a long, long drive. And since we couldn't play together like good children, of course, it was plain we oughtn't of play at all.
George: Play?
Lucy: What I mean is, we've come to the point where it was time to quite playing. Well, what we were playing.
George: That being love, as you mean, don't you?
Lucy: Something like that. It was absurd.
Nancy Gates
Extended Reading
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