friendship.

STRANGER. Friendship! Am I a friend of yours?

BEGGAR. Well, I am of yours. When one's alone in the world one
can't be particular.

STRANGER. Then let me tell you you forget yourself...

BEGGAR. Only too pleased! But when we meet again I'll have a word
of welcome for you. (Exit.)

STRANGER (sitting down again and drawing in the dust with his
stick). Sunday afternoon! A long, dank, sad time, after the usual
Sunday dinner of roast beef, cabbage and watery potatoes. Now the
older people are testing, the younger playing chess and smoking.
The servants have gone to church and the shops are shut. This
frightful afternoon, this day of rest, when there's nothing to
engage the soul, when it's as hard to meet a friend as to get into
a wine shop. (The LADY comes back again, she is noun wearing a
flower at her breast.) Strange! I can't speak without being
contradicted at once!

LADY. So you're still here?

STRANGER. Whether I sit here, or elsewhere, and write in the sand
doesn't seem to me to matter--as long so I write in the sand.

LADY. What are you writing? May I see?