‘My dear lord,’ he cried, ‘I could have spared you a tiresome walk. I thought your friends would certainly have told you of their intention, or I would have mentioned it myself.’
‘My dear Pasha,’ I rejoined, no less cordially, ‘to tell the truth, I knew their intention, but it struck me suddenly that I would go with them, and I ran down to try and catch them. Unfortunately I was too late.’
The extravagance of my lying served its turn; Mouraki understood, not that I was trying to deceive him, but that I was informing him politely that he had not succeeded in deceiving me.
‘You wished to accompany them?’ he asked, with a broadening smile. ‘You—a lover!’
‘A man can’t always be making love,’ said I carelessly—though truly enough.
Mouraki took a step toward me.
‘It is safer not to do it at all,’ said he in a lower tone.
The man had a great gift of expression. His eyes could put a world of meaning into a few simple words. In this little sentence, which sounded like a trite remark, I discovered a last offer, an invitation to surrender, a threat in case of obstinacy. I answered it after its own kind.’
‘Safer, perhaps, but deplorably dull,’ said I.