little emotional; the moon is funny, you know. But I live for myself
only, now. I don't care for anything or anybody.

YOUNG OFF. All the same; just now you were pitying your folk at
home, and prisoners and that.

GIRL. Yees; because they suffer. Those who suffer are like me--I
pity myself, that's all; I am different from your English women. I
see what I am doing; I do not let my mind become a turnip just
because I am no longer moral.

YOUNG OFF. Nor your heart either, for all you say.

GIRL. Ni-ice boy, you are veree obstinate. But all that about love
is 'umbog. We love ourselves, noting more.

At that intense soft bitterness in her voice, he gets up,
feeling stifled, and stands at the window. A newspaper boy some
way off is calling his wares. The GIRL's fingers slip between
his own, and stay unmoving. He looks round into her face. In
spite of make-up it has a queer, unholy, touching beauty.

YOUNG OFF. [With an outburst] No; we don't only love ourselves;
there is more. I can't explain, but there's something great; there's
kindness--and--and-----

[The shouting of newspaper boys grows louder and their cries,
passionately vehement, clash into each other and obscure each
word. His head goes up to listen; her hand tightens within his
arm--she too is listening. The cries come nearer, hoarser, more