She was silent again, remembering her former aversion to him: did she still feel it?
“What do you think of my theory?” he asked.
She looked up; her white fingers trembled in the tulle of her gown. She made a poor effort to smile:
“I think you go too far!” she stammered.
“You think I rush into hyperbole?”
She would have liked to say yes, but could not:
“No,” she said; “not that.”
“Do I bore you?...”
She looked at him, looked deep into his eyes. She shook her head, by way of saying no. She would have liked to say that he was too unconventional just now; but she could not find the words. A faintness oppressed her whole being. The table, the people, the whole dinner-party appeared to her as through a haze of light. When she recovered herself again, she perceived that a pretty woman opposite had been staring at her and was now looking away, out of politeness. She did not know how or why this interested her, but she asked Quaerts:
“Who is the lady over there, in pale blue, with the dark hair?”