Through all that time they got no further with the great discussion for
which they had faced that solitude. They attempted beginnings.
"Where had we got to when we left England?" cried Marjorie. "You
couldn't work, you couldn't rest--you hated our life."
"Yes, I know. I had a violent hatred of the lives we were leading. I
thought--we had to get away. To think.... But things don't leave us
alone here."
He covered his face with his hands.
"Why did we come here?" he asked.
"You wanted--to get out of things."
"Yes. But with you.... Have we, after all, got out of things at all? I
said coming up, perhaps we were leaving our own problem behind. In
exchange for other problems--old problems men have had before. We've got
nearer necessity; that's all. Things press on us just as much. There's
nothing more fundamental in wild nature, nothing profounder--only
something earlier. One doesn't get out of life by going here or
there.... But I wanted to get you away--from all things that had such a
hold on you....
"When one lies awake at nights, then one seems to get down into
things...."
He went to the door, opened it, and stood looking out. Against a wan
daylight the snow was falling noiselessly and steadily.
"Everything goes on," he said.... "Relentlessly...."