"In between what?"
"Whatever it is you do in the morning and whatever it is you do in the evening."
"I enjoy myself."
"Yes. Yes. That's what I'd like to do."
"But don't you?"
"I can't."
"What—you can't?" she said. "But you live in beauty. You make it. You pour it over the world—"
She stopped abruptly, hit by a sudden thought. "I beg your pardon," she said. "I don't know anything really. Perhaps—you're in mourning?"
He looked at her. "No," he said, "I'm not in mourning."
"Or perhaps—no, you're not ill. And you can't be poor. Well, then, why in the world don't you enjoy yourself?"