PIERROT
It’d break her heart.
MAN (lifting his eyes)
Then you’re fond of her, sir?
PIERROT (roughly)
Of course I’m fond of her. That’s just the trouble! (pause) But I’m tired to death of her—and that’s the trouble, too. First, when I loved her, just a peep of her out of a window would set my heart dancing. Now, when I see her—it’s just like seeing—the butcher boy—or the bakeshop woman. (Rises excitedly) I tell you when things are like that, something’s got to be done. An artist can’t live that way. Ordinary men can. All they want of their wives is to be cushions—soft—so’s they can go to sleep. Artists are different. They want the sky and all the quivering stars in the sky. When they marry (he makes a grimace)—it’s good-bye to the stars!
MAN (looking at him quizzically)
Did you ever think, sir, why the night was made—with them stars you talk of?
PIERROT
Why was the night made?