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           Butisn’tsomethingwrong?’

           ’Youmayfeelit,Idon’t.’

           ’Yes,Ifeelsomethingiswrongbetweenmenandwomen.Awomanhasnoglamourforamananymore.’

           ’Hasamanforawoman?’

           Sheponderedtheothersideofthequestion.

           ’Notmuch,’shesaidtruthfully.

           ’Thenlet’sleaveitallalone,andjustbedecentandsimple,likeproperhumanbeingswithoneanother.Bedamnedtotheartificialsex-compulsion!Irefuseit!’

           Connieknewhewasright,really.Yetitleftherfeelingsoforlorn,soforlornandstray.Likeachiponadrearypond,shefelt.Whatwasthepoint,ofheroranything?

           Itwasheryouthwhichrebelled.Thesemenseemedsooldandcold.Everythingseemedoldandcold.AndMichaelisletonedownso;hewasnogood.Themendidn’twantone;theyjustdidn’treallywantawoman,evenMichaelisdidn’t.

           Andthebounderswhopretendedtheydid,andstartedworkingthesexgame,theywereworsethanever.

           Itwasjustdismal,andonehadtoputupwithit.Itwasquitetrue,menhadnorealglamourforawoman:ifyoucouldfoolyourselfintothinkingtheyhad,evenasshehadfooledherselfoverMichaelis,thatwasthebestyoucoulddo.Meanwhileyoujustlivedonandtherewasnothingtoit.Sheunderstoodperfectlywellwhypeoplehadcocktailparties,andjazzed,andCharlestonedtilltheywerereadytodrop.Youhadtotakeitoutsomewayorother,youryouth,oritateyouup.Butwhataghastlything,thisyouth!YoufeltasoldasMethuselah,andyetthethingfizzedsomehow,anddidn’tletyoubecomfortable.