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of Munich.’
He sat and looked at her, coldly. What she liked about
him was that he spoke to her simple and flat, as to himself.
He was a fellow craftsman, a fellow being to her, first.
‘No—Paris,’ he resumed, ‘it makes me sick. Pah—
l’amour. I detest it. L’amour, l’amore, die Liebe—I detest it
in every language. Women and love, there is no greater te-
dium,’ he cried.
She was slightly offended. And yet, this was her own ba-
sic feeling. Men, and love—there was no greater tedium.
‘I think the same,’ she said.
‘A bore,’ he repeated. ‘What does it matter whether I wear
this hat or another. So love. I needn’t wear a hat at all, only
for convenience. Neither need I love except for convenience.
I tell you what, gnadige Frau—‘ and he leaned towards her—
then he made a quick, odd gesture, as of striking something
aside—‘gnadige Fraulein, never mind—I tell you what, I
would give everything, everything, all your love, for a little
companionship in intelligence—‘ his eyes flickered dark-
ly, evilly at her. ‘You understand?’ he asked, with a faint
smile. ‘It wouldn’t matter if she were a hundred years old,
a thousand—it would be all the same to me, so that she can
UNDERSTAND.’ He shut his eyes with a little snap.
Again Gudrun was rather offended. Did he not think her
good looking, then? Suddenly she laughed.
‘I shall have to wait about eighty years to suit you, at
that!’ she said. ‘I am ugly enough, aren’t I?’
He looked at her with an artist’s sudden, critical, esti-
mating eye.

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