“What is your waist size, Grete?”

“Forty-eight centimeters.”

“And yours, Mary?”

“Fifty.”

“And yours, Ella?”

“Forty-seven centimeters.”

“Oh, my goodness, how nice! Forty-seven!”

“You lace yourself up? That’s unattractive, artists say it’s ugly.”

“Yes, well—hmm, I danced with a lieutenant, so what do you know?

“Of course, he laces himself up too, so he mustn’t reproach you for it!”

“You know,” said little Sophie, who up until this point had been sitting quietly, “you won’t be able to have children when you get married.”

“I don’t want to anyway, then I would lose my waist.”

“Well, what is it that you want from life then?”

“To dance, wear pretty dresses, go rowing, horseback riding.”

“And you don’t want a little child, who looks at you with eyes that say: ‘dear Mommy,’ even before it can speak?”

“No! Because I can’t stand the noise children make and then—my waist …”

“Yes,” said Sophie, “you will keep your waist, but your face will get old. Then your lieutenant won’t want to dance with you anymore either, despite your waist. And you will be alone, like others.”

“This talk of yours is indecent,” said Mary. “If you would only speak about the men who court you…but about having children! We aren’t supposed to know anything about that yet.”

“You all know it anyway,” Sophie said. “You only pretend you don’t, out of modesty.”

“What is so terrible about it, Mary? About thinking of a dear mother, who watches her little child day and night, and takes care of his small, helpless body, while others dance and enjoy themselves?”

“You always stir up conversations that should not take place, Sophie. Look, there’s nothing about small children in any novel, but always only about sweet love. Out of modesty, you know!”

Little Sophie with her serious, dreamy eyes: “No, not out of modesty. I don’t actually know why. Well, maybe it’s because men write the books. They don’t know how sweet a little child is.”

Ella: “But women write, too.”

Sophie: “Yes, but they’re not brave enough. They write as they’ve learned it from men. Their souls first creep out of their bodies and into a man’s head; only then do they write.