"No," she laughed quietly, "because I understand what you mean."
"I don't mean anything."
"I know. You talk because you have nothing to say. And I like to listen to you because I understand."
This was somewhat less jarring, though still a bit crude. Her admiration would be more pleasant were it more difficult to discover. He became silent and aware of the street. There had been no street for several minutes—merely vivid eyes and dark lips. Now there were people—familiar unknowns to be found always in streets, their faces withholding something, like unfinished sentences. He had lost interest and felt piqued. His loss of interest in his talk was perhaps merely a reflection of her own.
"I remember hearing you were a socialist. That's hard to believe."
There was no relation between them now. He would have to work it up again.
"No, my parents are. I'm not."
"Russians?"
"Yes. Jews."
"I'm curious about your ideals."