He sat down. He did not feel really intimate with her at that moment. And their marriage seemed to him, in a way, artificial, scarcely a fact. He did not know that it takes years to accomplish full intimacy between husband and wife.
"You know," he said, "Henry Leek isn't my real name."
"Oh, isn't it?" she said. "What does that matter?"
She was not in the least surprised to hear that Henry Leek was not his real name. She was a wise woman, and knew the strangeness of the world. And she had married him simply because he was himself, because he existed in a particular manner (whose charm for her she could not have described) from hour to hour.
"So long as you haven't committed a murder or anything," she added, with her tranquil smile.
"My real name is Priam Farll," he said gruffly. The gruffness was caused by timidity.
"I thought Priam Farll was your gentleman's name."
"To tell you the truth," he said nervously, "there was a mistake. That photograph that was sent to you was my photograph."
"Yes," she said. "I know it was. And what of it?"
"I mean," he blundered on, "it was my valet that died--not me. You see, the doctor, when he came, thought that Leek was me, and I didn't tell him differently, because I was afraid of all the bother. I just let it slide--and there were other reasons. You know how I am...."