People who are in society, like you and me, owe it to ourselves to go masked.” In the meantime the meal was drawing to a close; a waiter went round collecting the scores and pocketing the tips. As the car emptied, Defouqueblize’s voice became deeper and louder; at moments its bursts of sonority made Lafcadio feel almost uncomfortable. He went on: “And even if there were no society to restrain us, that little group of relations and friends whom we can’t bear to displease, would suffice. They confront our uncivil sincerity with an image of ourselves for which we are only half responsible--an image which has very little resemblance to us, but out of whose borders, I tell you, it is indecent to emerge. At this moment--it’s a fact--I have escaped from my shape--taken flight out of myself.... Oh! dizzy adventure! Dangerous rapture!... But I’m boring you to death!” “You interest me singularly.” “I keep on talking ... talking! It can’t be helped! Once a professor, always a professor--even when one’s drunk; and it’s a subject I have at heart.... But if you’ve finished dinner, perhaps you’ll be so kind as to give me your arm back to my carriage, while I can still stand on my legs. I’m afraid if I wait any longer, I mayn’t be able to get up.” At these words Defouqueblize made a kind of bound as though in an effort to get out of his chair, but subsided again immediately in a half sprawl over the table, where, with his head and shoulders flung forward in Lafcadio’s direction, he went on in a lower, semi-confidential voice: “This is my thesis: Do you know what is needful to turn an honest man into a rogue? A change of scene--a moment’s forgetfulness suffice. Yes, sir, a gap in the memory and sincerity comes out into the open!... a cessation of continuity--a simple interruption of the current. Naturally, I don’t say this in my lectures ... but, between ourselves, what an advantage for the bastard! Just think! a being whose very existence is owing to an erratic impulse--to a crook in the straight line!...” The professor’s voice had again grown loud; the eyes he now fixed on Lafcadio were peculiar; their glance, which was at times vague and at times piercing, began to alarm him. Lafcadio wondered now whether the man’s short sight were not feigned, and that peculiar glance seemed to him almost familiar. At last, more embarrassed than he cared to own, he got up and said abruptly: “Come, Monsieur Defouqueblize, take my arm. Get up. Enough talk!”