BELL: Well, I’ve no turn for penal servitude. But, have you never gabbed to keep your heart up? What are hats for, if not for talking through? Pride--we’ve both pride; yours, hot and fierce, and mine Careless and cold: yet, both came the same cropper-- Not quite ... for you were hurt to death almost: While I picked myself up, scatheless; not a scratch; Only my skirt torn; and it always draggled. JUDITH: You never cared: I couldn’t have borne myself, If I’d not cared: I’d hate myself as much As I’ve hated Jim, whiles, when I thought of all. They’re mixter-maxter, hate and love: and, often, I’ve wondered if I loathed, or loved, Jim most. I understand as little as you, it seems: Yet, it’s only caring counts for anything In this life; though it’s caring’s broken me. BELL: It stiffens some. But, why take accidents So bitterly? It’s all a rough-and-tumble Of accidents, from the accident of birth To the last accident that lays us out-- A go-as-you-please, and the devil take the hindmost. It’s pluck that counts, and an easy seat in the saddle: Better to break your neck at the first ditch, Than waste the day in seeking gates to slip through: Cold-blooded crawlers I’ve no sort of use for. You took the leap, and landed in the quickset: But, at least, you leapt sky-high, before you tumbled: And it’s silly to lie moaning in the prickles: Best pick yourself up sharp, and shake the thorns out, Else the following hoofs will bash you. Give life leave To break your heart, ’twill trample you ... JUDITH: Leave, say you? Life takes French-leave: your heart’s beneath the hoofs Before ... BELL: But grin, and keep yourself heartwhole; And you’ll find the fun of the fair’s in taking chances: It’s the uncertainty makes the race--no sport In putting money on dead-certainties. I back the dark horse; stake my soul against The odds: and I’ll not grouse if life should prove A welsher in the end: I’ll have had my fling, At least: and yet talk’s cheap ... JUDITH: Ay, cheap.