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 tedium,’ he cried.

She was slightly offended. And yet, this was her own basic 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 —