But he would take no notice of her. He was talking to himself.

‘I want to find you, where you don’t know your own existence, the you that your common self denies utterly. But I don’t want your good looks, and I don’t want your womanly feelings, and I don’t want your thoughts nor opinions nor your ideas — they are all bagatelles to me.’

‘You are very conceited, Monsieur,’ she mocked. ‘How do you know what my womanly feelings are, or my thoughts or my ideas? You don’t even know what I think of you now.’

‘Nor do I care in the slightest.’

‘I think you are very silly. I think you want to tell me you love me, and you go all this way round to do it.’