"Do you mean that I have had my schooling by observing life?"
"Yes—a life in a cabaret full of rastaoqueres and cocottes—a rather limited and sordid outlook, Philippa. The world lies outside."
"Still—it is life. Even a cocotte is part of life."
"So is disease. But it isn't all there is in life."
"Nor is life in a cabaret all corruption. A cabaret is merely the world in miniature; all types pass in and out; they come and go as souls are born and go: the door opens and closes; one sees a new face, one loses it. It is much like birth and death."
She made an unconsciously graceful gesture toward the white clouds overhead.
"A cabaret," she went on seriously, "is a republic governed by the patron, audited by the caissière, policed by waiters. Everybody goes there—even you, Monsieur. All languages are spoken there, all questions discussed, all theories aired, all passions ventilated. Every trait of human nature is to be observed there; the germ of every comedy; the motive of every tragedy.... Yet, as you say, it is a saddening school.... Wisdom is too early acquired there. One learns too quickly and too completely in such a school. Such an education means precocity. It foreshadows the early death of youth, Monsieur.... If I remain there, all that is still young in me will die, now, very quickly."
"You poor child!"
She shrugged her shoulders.
"Therefore," she said, "I am leaving. Now do you understand?"