She tried to speak; but Cordt shook his head in denial and she sighed and was silent.
“He is no longer young. But that makes no difference. He was never young. His unbounded susceptibility, his eternal readiness make him young in the women’s eyes, as though he were a woman in man’s clothing. His limp sensuousness has permeated every fibre of his body and his soul ... so much so that it affects his every word, look and thought. He is destitute of will and insipid and sickly and untrustworthy. He is never hungry and he is insatiable. He swallows women and spits them out again ... with morbid longings and a despondent temper and a diminished strength to live their lives.”
“Cordt!... Cordt!... What is he to me?... What is he to us?”
He looked at her and was silent for a moment. Then he said:
“Martens tends the garden in which you pluck your flowers. He is the chief gardener. But he is only one of a thousand. In the main, these passion-hunters are all alike. Shall I introduce them to you?”
“No, Cordt.”
“I can do so without hurting the feelings of any of them by mentioning their names,” he said. “You will recognize them all. You will recognize them at once.”
“Cordt!”
“You will remember the man of whom we all know that he has many mistresses, even though we can say nothing to his face. He often takes a new one. Then he has one more ... that is all ... for he never lets go the old ones.”