There was a silence between the two women, very pregnant.
“Englishwomen,” said Madame, “are so practical. Why are they?”
“I suppose they can’t help it,” said Alvina. “But they’re not half so practical and clever as you, Madame.”
“Oh la—la! I am practical differently. I am practical impractically—” she stumbled over the words. “But your Sue now, in Jude the Obscure—is it not an interesting book? And is she not always too practically practical. If she had been impractically practical she could have been quite happy. Do you know what I mean?—no. But she is ridiculous. Sue: so Anna Karénine. Ridiculous both. Don’t you think?”
“Why?” said Alvina.
“Why did they both make everybody unhappy, when they had the man they wanted, and enough money? I think they are both so silly. If they had been beaten, they would have lost all their practical ideas and troubles, merely forgot them, and been happy enough. I am a woman who says it. Such ideas they have are not tragical. No, not at all. They are nonsense, you see, nonsense. That is all. Nonsense. Sue and Anna, they are—non-sensical. That is all. No tragedy whatsoever. Nonsense. I am a woman. I know men also. And I know nonsense when I see it. Englishwomen are all nonsense: the worst women in the world for nonsense.”
“Well, I am English,” said Alvina.
“Yes, my dear, you are English. But you are not necessarily so non-sensical. Why are you at all?”
“Nonsensical?” laughed Alvina. “But I don’t know what you call my nonsense.”
“Ah,” said Madame wearily. “They never understand. But I like you, my dear. I am an old woman—”