“I don’t love Vanya,” she said.
“Of course you do!”
“As I might love a child––yes.”
After a silence: “It strikes me,” he said, “that you’re passionately in love.”
“I am.”
“With yourself,” he added, smiling.
“With you.”
This wouldn’t do any longer. The place slightly stifled him with its stillness, rugs––the odours that came from lacquered shapes, looming dimly, flowered and golden in the dusk––the aromatic scent of her cigarette–––
“Hell!” he muttered under his breath. “This is no place for a white man.” But aloud he said pleasantly: “My very best wishes for Vanya to-night. Tell him so when he returns––” He put on his overcoat and picked up hat and stick.