circular tour, Gerrit. It doesn't bring you back . . . to Paris."
"What a queer way you have of saying those things!" said Gerrit, laughing uncomfortably. "You were always a strange girl. Tell me, your father . . . was a waiter, wasn't he?"
"No, a gentleman. My mother was a laundress . . . in Brussels."
"And those twelve years of yours in Paris . . ."
"Made me into a Parisian, you think? . . . Gerrit, I longed for Holland!"
"I'll never believe that."
"Yes, Gerrit, I longed, for Holland."
"You're a great liar . . . with those eyes of yours! I never believe a word you say."
"Gerrit . . . and for you!"
"What's that?"
"I longed for you."
"Yes, of course. Tell that to the marines."
"I remembered the old days . . ."
"Oh, drop it!"
"Don't you know, when . . ."
"Yes, yes, I know everything. Stow all that, you and your recollections! You've taken me in enough, as it is. Why don't you look out for a young, rich chap?"
"You're not old, Gerrit."
"Oh, I'm not old!"
