“Have more wine,” she said to Aaron.

But he refused. She liked him because of his dead–level indifference to his surroundings. French waiters and foreign food—he noticed them in his quick, amiable–looking fashion—but he was indifferent. Josephine was piqued. She wanted to pierce this amiable aloofness of his.

She ordered coffee and brandies.

“But you don’t want to get away from EVERYTHING, do you? I myself feel so LOST sometimes—so dreadfully alone: not in a silly sentimental fashion, because men keep telling me they love me, don’t you know. But my LIFE seems alone, for some reason—”

“Haven’t you got relations?” he said.

“No one, now mother is dead. Nothing nearer than aunts and cousins in America. I suppose I shall see them all again one day. But they hardly count over here.”

“Why don’t you get married?” he said. “How old are you?”

“I’m twenty–five. How old are you?”

“Thirty–three.”

“You might almost be any age.—I don’t know why I don’t get married. In a way, I hate earning my own living—yet I go on—and I like my work—”

“What are you doing now?”

“I’m painting scenery for a new play—rather fun—I enjoy it. But I often wonder what will become of me.”

“In what way?”

She was almost affronted.

“What becomes of me? Oh, I don’t know. And it doesn’t matter, not to anybody but myself.”

“What becomes of anybody, anyhow? We live till we die. What do you want?”

“Why, I keep saying I want to get married and feel sure of something. But I don’t know—I feel dreadful sometimes—as if every minute would be the last. I keep going on and on—I don’t know what for—and IT keeps going on and on—goodness knows what it’s all for.”

“You shouldn’t bother yourself,” he said. “You should just let it go on and on—”

“But I MUST bother,” she said. “I must think and feel—”

“You’ve no occasion,” he said.

“How—?” she said, with a sudden grunting, unhappy laugh. Then she lit a cigarette.

“No,” she said. “What I should really like more than anything would be an end of the world. I wish the world would come to an end.”

He laughed, and poured his drops of brandy down his throat.

“It won’t, for wishing,” he said.

“No, that’s the awful part of it. It’ll just go on and on— Doesn’t it make you feel you’d go mad?”

He looked at her and shook his head.

“You see it doesn’t concern me,” he said. “So long as I can float by myself.”

“But ARE you SATISFIED!” she cried.

“I like being by myself—I hate feeling and caring, and being forced into it. I want to be left alone—”