“Theoretically,” said Cathleen, looking up at him with a quick smile. “You see, I have lived on theory, not my own, either; Lotta’s. And I don’t know whether my theory can hold out against your practice, any more than my sentimental girlish fictions could. You upset them, you know, and you are just as disconcerting as ever. Shall you go on with your work?”
“I can’t think of anything else I should like so well.”
“And that girl?”
“That’s what we have both been thinking about all the time.”
“Yes.”
Cathleen rose and walked over to the window and looked out. She stood then for so long that René followed her and laid his hand on her shoulder. The window gave on to a row of back gardens with a few trees, black and bare. Opposite was a lighted window through which could be seen four girls sewing—stitch, stitch, stitch.
“I have often watched them,” said Cathleen, “and wondered what might be in their lives. Desire? Religion? Love? What is it makes it possible for them to work so mechanically and so happily.”
“Fun,” said René. “They want fun, spiced with the risk of having to pay for it.”
“Is she like that?”