“I hope so,” Clara answered, awkwardly.
Pavel withdrew. In his absence their embarrassment only increased.
The next time Clara and Pavel met, in the trunk-shop, he asked her when she would call on his mother again.
“Oh, I don’t know. The point is I don’t know what to do with my hands there,” she said, with a laugh. “I can’t seem to shake off the feeling that I am in the house of—in ‘the Palace,’ don’t you know.”
It was a hot day, but the air in the basement was quite cool. Motl was silently painting a trunk, and Pavel was conscious of the oppressive smell of the paint and of the impact of the brush against the wood as he answered, with pained stress in his voice.
“But my mother does not feel like a countess. She is above and beyond all such things.”
“I know she is. Only I somehow don’t manage to feel at home there.”
“But it’s only a matter of habit I am sure. You’ll get over it. You won’t feel that way next time. You must promise me to call to-morrow.” It was as if Clara’s was a superior position in life and as if that superiority lay in this, that her home was a squalid trunk-shop, while his was a palace.
“If I do, my mind will be in a whirl again,” she laughed.