Manufacturer. Pierrot, Pierrot, your superior mind can't tumble to my calling. A child or one of the "people" would in a moment. I am a maker of dreams, little things that glide about into people's hearts and make them glad. Haven't you often wondered where the swallows go to in the autumn? They come to my workshop, and tell me who wants a dream, and what happened to the dreams they took with them in the spring.
Pierrot. Oh, I say, you can't expect me to believe that.
Manufacturer. When flowers fade, have you never wondered where their colors go to, or what becomes of all the butterflies in the winter? There isn't much winter about my workshop.
Pierrot. I had never thought of it before.
Manufacturer. It's a kind of lost property office, where every beautiful thing that the world has neglected finds its way. And there I make my celebrated dream, the dream that is called "love."
Pierrot. Ho! ho! Now we're talking.
Manufacturer. You don't believe in it?
Pierrot. Yes, in a way. But it doesn't last. It doesn't last. If there is form, there isn't soul, and, if there is soul, there isn't form. Oh, I've tried hard enough to believe it, but, after the first wash, the colors run.
Manufacturer. You only got hold of a substitute. Wait until you see the genuine article.
Pierrot. But how is one to tell it?