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Why
,
I
ask
(
whispering
discreetly
)
,
do
women
dine
alone
together
there
?
Who
are
they
?
And
what
has
brought
them
on
this
particular
evening
to
this
particular
spot
?
The
youth
in
the
corner
,
judging
from
the
nervous
way
in
which
he
puts
his
hand
from
time
to
time
to
the
back
of
his
head
,
is
from
the
country
.
He
is
suppliant
,
and
so
anxious
to
respond
suitably
to
the
kindness
of
his
father
's
friend
,
his
host
,
that
he
can
scarcely
enjoy
now
what
he
will
enjoy
very
much
at
about
half-past
eleven
tomorrow
morning
.
I
have
also
seen
that
lady
powder
her
nose
three
times
in
the
midst
of
an
absorbing
conversation
--
about
love
,
perhaps
,
about
the
unhappiness
of
their
dearest
friend
perhaps
.
"
Ah
,
but
the
state
of
my
nose
!
"
she
thinks
,
and
out
comes
her
powder-puff
,
obliterating
in
its
passage
all
the
most
fervent
feelings
of
the
human
heart
.
There
remains
,
however
,
the
insoluble
problem
of
the
solitary
man
with
the
eyeglass
;
of
the
elderly
lady
drinking
champagne
alone
.
Who
and
what
are
these
unknown
people
?
I
ask
.
I
could
make
a
dozen
stories
of
what
he
said
,
of
what
she
said
--
I
can
see
a
dozen
pictures
.
But
what
are
stories
?
Toys
I
twist
,
bubbles
I
blow
,
one
ring
passing
through
another
.
And
sometimes
I
begin
to
doubt
if
there
are
stories
.
What
is
my
story
?
What
is
Rhoda
's
?
What
is
Neville
's
?
There
are
facts
,
as
,
for
example
:
"
The
handsome
young
man
in
the
grey
suit
,
whose
reserve
contrasted
so
strangely
with
the
loquacity
of
the
others
,
now
brushed
the
crumbs
from
his
waistcoat
and
,
with
a
characteristic
gesture
at
once
commanding
and
benign
,
made
a
sign
to
the
waiter
,
who
came
instantly
and
returned
a
moment
later
with
the
bill
discreetly
folded
upon
a
plate
.
"
That
is
the
truth
;
that
is
a
fact
,
but
beyond
it
all
is
darkness
and
conjecture
.
'
'N
ow
once
more
,
'
said
Louis
,
'
as
we
are
about
to
part
,
having
paid
our
bill
,
the
circle
in
our
blood
,
broken
so
often
,
so
sharply
,
for
we
are
so
different
,
closes
in
a
ring
.
Something
is
made
.
Yes
,
as
we
rise
and
fidget
,
a
little
nervously
,
we
pray
,
holding
in
our
hands
this
common
feeling
,
"
Do
not
move
,
do
not
let
the
swing
door
cut
to
pieces
the
thing
that
we
have
made
,
that
globes
itself
here
,
among
these
lights
,
these
peelings
,
this
litter
of
bread
crumbs
and
people
passing
.
Do
not
move
,
do
not
go
.
Hold
it
for
ever
.
"
'
'
Let
us
hold
it
for
one
moment
,
'
said
Jinny
;
'
love
,
hatred
,
by
whatever
name
we
call
it
,
this
globe
whose
walls
are
made
of
Percival
,
of
youth
and
beauty
,
and
something
so
deep
sunk
within
us
that
we
shall
perhaps
never
make
this
moment
out
of
one
man
again
.
'
'
Forests
and
far
countries
on
the
other
side
of
the
world
,
'
said
Rhoda
,
'
are
in
it
;
seas
and
jungles
;
the
howlings
of
jackals
and
moonlight
falling
upon
some
high
peak
where
the
eagle
soars
.
'
'
Happiness
is
in
it
,
'
said
Neville
,
'
and
the
quiet
of
ordinary
things
.
A
table
,
a
chair
,
a
book
with
a
paper-knife
stuck
between
the
pages
.
And
the
petal
falling
from
the
rose
,
and
the
light
flickering
as
we
sit
silent
,
or
,
perhaps
,
bethinking
us
of
some
trifle
,
suddenly
speak
.
'
'
Week-days
are
in
it
,
'
said
Susan
,
'M
onday
,
Tuesday
,
Wednesday
;
the
horses
going
up
to
the
fields
,
and
the
horses
returning
;
the
rooks
rising
and
falling
,
and
catching
the
elm-trees
in
their
net
,
whether
it
is
April
,
whether
it
is
November
.
'
'
What
is
to
come
is
in
it
,
'
said
Bernard
.
'
That
is
the
last
drop
and
the
brightest
that
we
let
fall
like
some
supernal
quicksilver
into
the
swelling
and
splendid
moment
created
by
us
from
Percival
.
What
is
to
come
?
I
ask
,
brushing
the
crumbs
from
my
waistcoat
,
what
is
outside
?
We
have
proved
,
sitting
eating
,
sitting
talking
,
that
we
can
add
to
the
treasury
of
moments
.
We
are
not
slaves
bound
to
suffer
incessantly
unrecorded
petty
blows
on
our
bent
backs
.
We
are
not
sheep
either
,
following
a
master
.
We
are
creators
.
We
too
have
made
something
that
will
join
the
innumerable
congregations
of
past
time
.
We
too
,
as
we
put
on
our
hats
and
push
open
the
door
,
stride
not
into
chaos
,
but
into
a
world
that
our
own
force
can
subjugate
and
make
part
of
the
illumined
and
everlasting
road
.
'
Look
,
Percival
,
while
they
fetch
the
taxi
,
at
the
prospect
which
you
are
so
soon
to
lose
.
The
street
is
hard
and
burnished
with
the
churning
of
innumerable
wheels
.
The
yellow
canopy
of
our
tremendous
energy
hangs
like
a
burning
cloth
above
our
heads
.
Theatres
,
music
halls
and
lamps
in
private
houses
make
that
light
.
