Andrew—Yes.
Robert—I can’t imagine you as the easy-come, easy-go kind.
Andrew—I’m not. I’m sick of it.
Robert—[Thoughtfully.] I’ve been wondering what the great change was in you. I can see now. It’s your eyes. There’s an expression about them as if you were constantly waiting to hear a cannon go off, and wincing at the bang beforehand.
Andrew—[Grimly.] I’ve felt just that way all the past year.
Robert—[After a pause during which his eyes search Andrew’s face.] Why haven’t you ever married?
Andrew—Never wanted to. Didn’t have time to think of it, I guess.
Robert—[After a pause.] You—a farmer—to gamble in a wheat pit with scraps of paper. There’s a spiritual significance in that picture, Andy. [He smiles bitterly.] I’m a failure, and Ruth’s another—but we can both justly lay some of the blame for our stumbling on God. But you’re the deepest-dyed failure of the three, Andy. You’ve spent eight years running away from yourself. Do you see what I mean? You used to be a creator when you loved the farm. You and life were in harmonious partnership. And now——— [He stops as if seeking vainly for words.] My brain is muddled. But part of what I mean is that your gambling with the thing you used to love to create proves how far astray you’ve gotten
