She gave a sigh of relief at having steered clear of the rocks of her autobiography. He made no further inquiries. But he seemed equally unwilling to give information about himself, either with regard to his present or his past circumstances.
"Life has its shady side," he said, "and when one finds one's self among the shadows, it's a question whether it's advisable to speak about it."
"But I am such an old friend!" cried Lilly. "You can confide in me. Fancy that we are sitting on the old terrace in the Junkerstrasse.... Don't you remember ... that time we first spoke to each other? It was just such a May evening as this."
"It was warmer," he replied, turning up the collar of his jacket as far as his ears.
"You are cold?" she asked, laughing, for she was aglow from head to foot.
"I haven't"--he paused--"my summer overcoat with me to-night."
"Oh, then we had better get up," she said, becoming thoughtful; "we can talk just as well walking about."
And so they paced up and down in the shadow of the old church; but the interchange of personal confidences flagged. He evaded questions and she evaded them, and they put each other off with generalities. She extolled her happy lot; he sighed over his: "It's hard--very hard!" just as he had done at the time of his examination; she could hear him as plainly as if it were yesterday.
"How are your people?" she asked, to change the subject:
His father had died after a short illness two years ago, his mother still made cravats.