"Oh, the stage! That's false if you like! And the novel. If you wrote a novel in which life was shown as it really is, every one would cry 'How unnatural!' I do wish I could write!--could describe life as I understand it, as it truly is, with its great littlenesses and its mean greatness! I'd write a book or a play which would astonish Europe!" He looked at her, pretending to be so overwhelmed that he had no words, and again she felt irritated. "You don't understand anything! You laugh at me! Yet if I could----" In spite of himself Antonio became serious. "Well, why can't you?" "Because first I should have to----No, I won't tell you. You can't understand! Besides, I can't write; I don't know how to express myself. My thoughts are fine, but I haven't the words. That's the way with so many! What do you suppose great men, the so-called great thinkers, are? Fortunate folk who know how to express themselves! Nietzsche, for instance. Don't you think I and a hundred others have all Nietzsche's ideas, without ever having read them? Only he knew how to set them down, and we don't. I say Nietzsche, but I might just as well say the author of the _Imitation_." "You should have married an author," said Antonio, secretly jealous of the man whom Regina had perhaps dreamed of but never met. Again she felt vexed. "It's quite useless! You don't understand me. I can't get on with authors a bit. Let me alone now. I told you not to fiddle with my hair!" "Stop! Don't go away! Let's talk more of your great thoughts. You think me an idiot. But listen, I want to say one thing; don't laugh. You want to do something wonderful. Well, an American author--Emerson, I think--said to his wife, that the greatest miracle a woman could perform is----" "Oh, I know! To have a baby!" she replied, with a forced smile. "But you see, I think humanity useless, life not worth living. Still, I don't commit suicide, so I suppose I do accept life. I admit that a son would be a fine piece of work. I'd enter on it with enthusiasm, with pride, if I were sure my son wouldn't turn out just a little _bourgeois_ like us!" "He might make a fortune and be a useful member of society." "Nonsense! Dreams of a little _bourgeois_!" she said bitterly; "he would be just as unhappy as we are!" "But I am happy!" protested Antonio. "If you are happy it shows you don't understand anything about it, and so you are doubly unhappy," she said vehemently, her eyes darkening disquietingly. "My dear, you're growing as crazy as your great writers." "There you are! the little _bourgeois_ who doesn't know what he is talking about!" And so they went on, till Antonio looked at the clock and jumped up with a start. "It's past the time! My love, if you had to go down to the office every day I assure you these notions would never come into your head." He hurried to wash; and still busy with the towel, damp and fresh with the cold water, he came back to kiss her.