“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—”