"I've said everything there was to say—I mean, what I came to say."
"There's a very great deal that you haven't told me. I don't understand. Who does your aunt think I am?"
"I would rather not tell you; you'd only laugh."
"But please tell me. I shouldn't."
A troubled silence answered him.
"Look here," he said, "I know there's a lot you haven't told me. Do tell me, and let me help you, if I can. You're worried and unhappy. I can hear it in your voice. Tell me. Things look different when you've put them into words. First of all, tell me who your aunt thought I was."
She sat down again with the air of definite decision. "Very well," she said, "if you will have it, she thought you were the piano-tuner. Why don't you laugh?"
"I'm not amused yet," he said. "What piano-tuner? And why should he—why should you—"
"The piano-tuner is a fence," she said, "and she thinks you're it."