"Why?" she asked quickly.
"I always see it on the table or in your hand," answered Orsino. "It is associated with you—I think of it when I think of you. I always fancy that it has a story."
"You are right. It was given to me by a person who loved me."
"I see—I was indiscreet."
"No—you do not see, my friend. If you did you—you would understand many things, and perhaps it is better that you should not know them."
"Your sadness? Should I understand that, too?"
"No. Not that."
A slight colour rose in her face, and she stretched out her hand to arrange the shade of the lamp, with a gesture long familiar to him.
"We shall end by misunderstanding each other," she continued in a harder tone. "Perhaps it will be my fault. I wish you knew much more about me than you do, but without the necessity of telling you the story. But that is impossible. This paper-cutter—for instance, could tell the tale better than I, for it made people see things which I did not see."
"After it was yours?"