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arguing and proof—continual examples, which we have to keep impressing upon ourselves—mercilessly—because, my dear sir—we don't know what it is, exactly—but it's there, just the same—it's there—and we all feel it, every one of us, catching us—here—by our throats—a sort of anguish—a thirst for living that is never satisfied, that is never quenched—that can never be quenched. Because life, as we live it from moment to moment, is always such a hurrying—such a stuffy thing—that it never lets us get the full taste of it. The flavour of life is in the past, which remains always as something living within us. Our enjoyment of it comes from back there—from the memories which hold us bound—but bound to what? Bound to these stupidities, precisely—to these annoyances—to all these silly illusions, all these insipid occupations of ours. Yes—yes—this little bit of foolishness here—this little annoyance . . . little??—why little? Even this great misfortune—a real misfortune—yes, sir—four, five, ten years hence will have, who knows, what flavour for us? Who knows what keen enjoyment, mingled with its tears! And life—God! Life—the moment we think of losing it—especially when it is only a matter of days—(At this point, a woman, dressed in black, appears around the corner on the right.) . . . Say—do you see that—I mean, over there—at the corner? You see that woman Ah! She's gone again.

THE CUSTOMER: A woman?—Where? . . . Who was it?

MAN WITH THE FLOWER: You didn't see her? . . . She has gone now.

THE CUSTOMER: A woman? . . .

MAN WITH THE FLOWER: My wife. . . . Yes. . . .

THE cusToMER: Ah! . . . Your wife!

MAN WITH THE FLOWER (after a pause): She keeps her eye on me. . . . Sometimes, you know, I feel almost like getting up and giving her a kick! But what good would that do—after all? . . . She's like one of those stray dogs you take into the house. . . . Obstinate! . . . The more you kick them and beat them, the closer they stick to your heels. (A pause.) What that woman is going through on my account, you can't imagine, sir! . . . Goes without her meals—rarely ever goes to bed—just follows me around, day and night—that way