"No, I'd rather sit here and talk."
"You're just as placid as ever . . ."
Brauws laughed:
"Outwardly, perhaps," he said. "Inwardly, I'm anything but placid."
"Have you been abroad much?"
"Yes."
"What do you do?"
"Much . . . and perhaps nothing. I am seeking . . ."
"What?"
"I can't explain it in a few words. Perhaps later, when we've seen more of each other."
"You're the same queer chap that you always were. What are you seeking?"
"Something."
"There's our old oracle. 'Something!' You were always fond of those short words."
"The universe lies in a word."
"Max, I can't follow you, if you go on like that. I never could, you know."
"Tell me about yourself now, about Rome, about Brussels."
Van der Welcke, smoking, described his life, more or less briefly, through the blue clouds of his cigarette. Brauws listened:
"Yes," he said. "Women . . ."
He had a habit of not finishing his sentences, or of saying only a single word.
