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[Indignantly.] Oh these women! They wreck and ruin life for us! Play the devil with our whole destiny—our triumphal progress.

Not all of them!

Indeed? Can you tell me of a single one that is good for anything?

No, that is the trouble. The few that I know are good for nothing.

[With a snort of scorn.] Well then, what is the good of it? What is the good of such women existing—if you never know them?

[Warmly.] Yes, John Gabriel, there is good in it, I assure you. It is such a blessed, beneficent thought that here or there in the world, somewhere, far away—the true woman exists after all.

[Moving impatiently on the sofa.] Oh, do spare me that poetical nonsense.

[Looks at him, deeply wounded.] Do you call my holiest faith poetical nonsense?