As soon as she had gone, he took his hat and overcoat and went out. A cold sun in a misty blue sky cast a pale, rather artificial and melancholy light on the city. After he had walked for a while, his quick, irritated steps jostling startled passersby, for he refused to allow himself to deviate from a straight line, his rage against her began to crumble into irritation and regret. After repeating all the reproaches he had heaped upon her, he recalled, seeing other women pass, how pretty and winning she was. Like so many others who refuse to admit it, he had always awaited the impossible encounter, the rare, unique, poetic, and impassioned affection, the dream of which hovers over all men’s hearts. Had he not almost found it? Might she not have been the one who would have given him that almost impossible happiness? Why is it then that nothing of the kind is ever realized? Why can one never possess what one pursues, or why does one attain only fragments, rendering ever more painful this endless pursuit of illusions?