"I gathered that you were from the plate outside your door."
The plate: "Pressed Flower Studio."
This was being rudely awakened from a pleasant dream to the stern facts of reality. But she must not lose her presence of mind and forfeit his esteem, so she answered carelessly:
"In a way. But mine is a very modest art. Once I worked hard at it, and it made me very happy. I learnt it soon after I became a widow." Her lips refused to utter the phrase, "soon after I was divorced." "I took it up more as a little distraction than as a serious means of earning a living. But then I had trouble with my eyes, and was obliged to give it up."
Three lies in one breath! But why not? She and everything round her was one big lie ... all her gestures and all her thoughts. Only the cry that went up from her soul now, moving her to the depths of her being, was not a lie: "You shall be mine. I will be yours." And so for his sake she went on lying.
"It's painful to me to talk about it," she continued, with her handkerchief pressed against her eyes. "I still fed it so much. I hope you will be so kind as never again to refer to it."
"Never again" had slipped from her. It sounded as if she took for granted that their acquaintance was to continue, and, overwhelmed with shame and confusion, she rose and turned her face aside.
"Forgive me," he said, greatly concerned. "I had no idea ..." He stood up to go.
A voice within her cried, "Stay, stay, stay!" But she was incapable of speaking, and felt as if turned to stone. Had he seen through her lies, divined who and what she was, and didn't wish to stay? She was conscious that her manner grew cold and haughty.
She extended her finger-tips to him. "It was kind of you to come," she said.