THE FATHER. Phrases! Isn't everyone consoled when faced with a trouble or fact he doesn't understand, by a word, some simple word, which tells us nothing and yet calms us? THE STEP-DAUGHTER. Even in the case of remorse. In fact, especially then. THE FATHER. Remorse? No, that isn't true. I've done more than use words to quieten the remorse in me. THE STEP-DAUGHTER. Yes, there was a bit of money too. Yes, yes, a bit of money. There were the hundred lire he was about to offer me in payment, gentlemen.... (_sensation of horror among the actors_). THE SON (_to the Step-Daughter_). This is vile. THE STEP-DAUGHTER. Vile? There they were in a pale blue envelope on a little mahogany table in the back of Madame Pace's shop. You know Madame Pace--one of those ladies who attract poor girls of good family into their ateliers, under the pretext of their selling _robes et manteaux_. THE SON. And he thinks he has bought the right to tyrannise over us all with those hundred lire he was going to pay; but which, fortunately--note this, gentlemen--he had no chance of paying. THE STEP-DAUGHTER. It was a near thing, though, you know! (_laughs ironically_). THE MOTHER (_protesting_.) Shame, my daughter, shame! THE STEP-DAUGHTER. Shame indeed! This is my revenge! I am dying to live that scene.... The room ... I see it.... Here is the window with the mantles exposed, there the divan, the looking-glass, a screen, there in front of the window the little mahogany table with the blue envelope containing one hundred lire. I see it. I see it. I could take hold of it.... But you, gentlemen, you ought to turn your backs now: I am almost nude, you know. But I don't blush: I leave that to him (_indicating Father_). THE MANAGER. I don't understand this at all. THE FATHER. Naturally enough. I would ask you, sir, to exercise your authority a little here, and let me speak before you believe all she is trying to blame me with. Let me explain. THE STEP-DAUGHTER. Ah yes, explain it in your own way. THE FATHER. But don't you see that the whole trouble lies here. In words, words. Each one of us has within him a whole world of things, each man of us his own special world. And how can we ever come to an understanding if I put in the words I utter the sense and value of things as I see them; while you who listen to me must inevitably translate them according to the conception of things each one of you has within himself. We think we understand each other, but we never really do! Look here! This woman (_indicating the Mother_) takes all my pity for her as a specially ferocious form of cruelty. THE MOTHER. But you drove me away. THE FATHER. Do you hear her? I drove her away! She believes I really sent her away.