What she liked about him was that he
spoke to her simple and flat, as to himself. He was a fellow craftsman,
a fellow being to her, first.
'No--Paris,' he resumed, 'it makes me sick. Pah--l'amour. I detest it.
L'amour, l'amore, die Liebe--I detest it in every language. Women and
love, there is no greater tedium,' he cried.
She was slightly offended. And yet, this was her own basic feeling.
Men, and love--there was no greater tedium.
'I think the same,' she said.
'A bore,' he repeated. 'What does it matter whether I wear this hat or
another. So love. I needn't wear a hat at all, only for convenience.
Neither need I love except for convenience. I tell you what, gnadige
Frau--' and he leaned towards her--then he made a quick, odd gesture,
as of striking something aside--'gnadige Fraulein, never mind--I tell
you what, I would give everything, everything, all your love, for a
little companionship in intelligence--' his eyes flickered darkly,
evilly at her. 'You understand?' he asked, with a faint smile.
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