Thérèse. Yes, I'm sure to be received quite differently with that letter from what I should be without it.
Nérisse. I can give you any number of letters like that. May I?
Thérèse [coldly] No, thank you.
Nérisse. You won't let me?
Thérèse. No.
Nérisse. Why?
Thérèse. You know very well why.
Nérisse. You're still angry with me. You do yourself harm by the way you treat me, you do indeed. Listen, this is the sort of thing. Moranville, the editor of the review I was talking about, is going to meet me at my restaurant after dinner. I know he wants just such stories as you write. But Moranville reads only the manuscripts of people he knows—he has a craze about it. Well, I hardly dare propose to you a thing which nevertheless is perfectly natural among colleagues, to come and dine with me first and meet him after. I hardly like—[Thérèse draws herself up] You see, I'm right. You don't trust me.
Thérèse. On the contrary, I'll go gladly. Madame Nérisse will be with you of course?
Nérisse [annoyed] Madame Nérisse! Nonsense! Do you suppose I drag her everywhere I go? Say no more about it. Whatever I say will only make you suspicious. [With a sigh] All this misunderstanding and suspicion is horrible to me. How stupid the world is! There are times when I feel disgusted with everything, myself included! I'm getting old. I'm a failure. I'm losing my time and wasting my life over this ridiculous paper, which will never be anything but an obscure rag. I shall have done for myself soon.