She is in her early twenties, a dark-haired, slim, pretty girl. The passion with which she utters her words accompanying them with graceful ballet steps traced with her long arms and fingers makes her look beautiful. The fresh beauty of the young dreamer that hadn't been spoiled yet by the bitteres of the quotidian.
He is in his 40's , simply but well dressed, sustaining the discussion with a composed tone and the ease distinguishing the one rused with the matters of punctilio. A professor, no doubt...
So, as she takes on some very touchy subjects, he is thinking at her amber hips, and as she throws her hands up to stress the gravity contained by a word like "God" or perhaps " truth", he imagines her as the little, graceful skylark aiming for the sun. And with a grave tone he utters: