The woman went over to the piano—stood there—striking one note—her brows drawn together. Then she shrugged her shoulders and smiled.
“I’ll make a confession. Every word you have said is true. I can’t help it. I can’t help seeking admiration any more than a cat can help going to people to be stroked. It’s my nature. I’m born out of my time. And yet, you know, I’m not a common woman. I like men to adore me—to flatter me—even to make love to me—but I would never give myself to any man. I would never let a man kiss me... even.”
“It’s immeasurably worse—you’ve no legitimate excuse. Why, even a prostitute has a greater sense of generosity!”
“I know,” she said, “I know perfectly well—but I can’t help the way I’m built.... Are you going?”
He put on his gloves.
“Well,” he said, “what’s going to happen to us now?”
Again she shrugged her shoulders.
“I haven’t the slightest idea. I never have—just let things occur.”
“All alone?” cried Victor. “Has Max been here?”