DAUGHTER (coldly). Perhaps not.
STRANGER. Now you look so like your mother.
DAUGHTER. How do you know, when you've never been able to see her as she was!
STRANGER. So you understood that, though you were so young?
DAUGHTER. I learnt to understand it from you. If only you'd understand yourself.
STRANGER. Have you anything else to teach me?
DAUGHTER. Perhaps! But in your day that wasn't considered seemly.
STRANGER. My day's over and exists no longer; just as Sylvia exists no longer, but is merely a name, a memory. (He takes a guide-book out of his pocket.) Look at this guide-book! Can you see small marks made here by tiny fingers, and others by little damp lips? You made them when you were five years old; you were sitting on my knee in the train, and we saw the Alps for the first time. You thought what you saw was Heaven; and when I explained that the mountain was the Jungfrau, you asked if you could kiss the name in the book.
DAUGHTER. I don't remember that!
STRANGER. Delightful memories pass, but hateful ones remain! Don't you remember anything about me?