MRS. G. How long?
CAPT. G. A hundred and twenty years.
MRS. G. A hundred and twenty years! O-oh! And in a hundred and twenty
years where will these two sensible people be?
CAPT. G. What _does_ it matter so long as we are together now?
MRS. G. (_Looking round the horizon._) Yes. Only you and I--I and
you--in the whole wide, wide world until the end. (_Sees the line of
the Snows._) How big and quiet the hills look! D'you think they care
for us?
CAPT. G. 'Can't say I've consulted 'em particularly. _I_ care, and
that's enough for me.
MRS. G. (_Drawing nearer to him._) Yes, now--but afterwards. What's
that little black blur on the Snows?
CAPT. G. A snowstorm, forty miles away. You'll see it move, as the
wind carries it across the face of that spur, and then it will be all
gone.
MRS. G. And then it will be all gone. (_Shivers._)
CAPT. G. (_Anxiously._) 'Not chilled, pet, are you? 'Better let me get
your cloak.
MRS. G. No. Don't leave me, Phil. Stay here. I believe I am afraid.
Oh, why are the hills so _horrid!_ Phil, promise me, promise me that
you'll _always_ love me.
CAPT.
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