Robert. That would be simple enough.
Trast. My dear man, let me talk to you as a friend!
Robert. Go ahead, talk!
Trast. You are pursuing a phantom!
Robert. Really?
Trast. No one has touched your honor.
Robert. Really!
Trast. Because nobody in the world could do it.
Robert. Really, really!
Trast. This thing that you call honor--this mixture of shame, and "tempo," and--honesty and pride, things you have acquired through a civilized existence and as a result of your own loyalty, why this can no more be taken away from you by a piece of treachery than your generosity or your judgment! Either it is a part of yourself or else it doesn't exist at all. The sort of honor that can be destroyed by a blow from a fop's glove has nothing to do with you! That is nothing but a mirror for the dandies, a plaything for the indolent and a perfume to the boulevardier.