"Not in a theatre like this," he said.
And he felt a momentary satisfaction because she knew that his answer had a meaning which she did not understand.
She persisted.
"Monsieur Cosgrave say you would not come. To say you never do nothing—only work and work. Is that true?"
"Yes."
"Don't dance—don't go to the theatre—don't love no one—don't get a leetle drunk sometimes? Never, never?"
"No," he said scornfully.
"Don't want to, hein?"
"I hate that sort of thing."
(But she was making him into a ridiculous prig. She turned the values of life topsy-turvy with that one ironic, good-natured gesture.)