She persisted.

"Monsieur Cosgrave say you would not come. To say you never do
nothing--only work and work. Is that true?"

"Yes."

"Don't dance--don't go to the theatre--don't love no one--don't get a
leetle drunk sometimes? Never, never?"

"No," he said scornfully.

"Don't want to, _hein_?"

"I hate that sort of thing."

(But she was making him into a ridiculous prig. She turned the values
of life topsy-turvy with that one ironic, good-natured gesture.)

"_Eh, bien_, it's a good thing for my sort there are not too many of
your sort, my friend. But per'aps it is not quite so bad as it seems,
for you 'are come after all."

"I had to," he thrust at her.

"'Ow you say--professionally?"

"Yes."