"What? . . ."
"All of you!" he said, roughly, with a wave of his hand.
"Whom do you mean?"
"Her caste, to which you yourself belong. What am I here for? Tell me what I am here for. A single word from that delicate, lily-white child, who hates me, has made me ask myself, what am I here for, among all of you? I'm out of place here."
"No. You are our friend, Henri's friend."
"And yours?"
"And mine."
"Already?"
"Already. So don't think that you are out of place here."
"You also are a woman . . . of your caste," he said, gloomily.
"Can I help that?" she asked, half laughing.
"No. But why friendship? Our ideas remain poles apart."
"Ideas? I have none. I have never thought."
"Never thought?"
"No."
"You are a woman: you have only felt."
"Not that either."
"Not felt? But then what have you done?"
"I do not believe that I have lived."
"Not ever?"
"No, not ever."
