'Oh, I know what it is to be harried by one's work,' Guite said. 'I never go out either. It's quite by chance that you see me here!' Her laugh insinuated that I was pleasantly deluded, that in truth she wasn't there at all. 'But this would be different — just a simple little dinner... And I'd invite only men,' she added in a confidential tone. 'I don't care for the company of women; I feel completely lost with them. Don't you?'

'No, I get along very well with women.'

She gave me a look of dismayed reproof. 'Curious, very curious .... It must be I who's abnormal.'

In her books she willingly proclaimed the inferiority of her sex. But she herself, she imagined, escaped it by the virility of her talent. And she believed she was even superior to men, since, gifted with the same qualities as they, she had in addition the singular and charming merit of being a woman. That trick irritated me. In a professional tone, I said, 'You're not at all abnormal. Almost all women prefer men.'

Her face froze solidly, and not too pointedly but deliberately she turned towards Huguette Volange. Poor Guite! She was torn between the desire to see justice rendered to her merits and to evade any reproach of narcissism. She therefore attempted to dictate to others what she wanted them to say about her. But if they didn't say it? Would she have to resign herself to being misunderstood? It was a painful dilemma.