"Isn't it the same thing?"
He shook his head, still fixing her with his gaze.
"What was your husband?" he asked next.
"I ... am the divorced wife ... of an officer of high rank," she replied, dropping her eyes to the floor.
Thank God! This time she had not lied.
But hadn't she? What was she now? For a moment he pressed her hand, which lay on the table.
"Don't speak of your past if you would rather not," he said; "leave it for the present. When we are old friends it'll be time enough. I'll tell you about myself and how I came to think of my great work."
"The work that you mentioned just now?" she asked, curiously moved by the sudden solemnity of his tone.
Breathing deeply, he stretched out his clenched fists, and his eyes burned into space.
"Yes; the work for which I live ... the work that is my pillar of strength, my goal, my future--my everything ... that stands for father, mother, brother, friend, and love.... For it, this wine was vintaged, this hour created, and you yourself, dear gracious, beautiful one, with your delicate infinite charm, and your two begging hands, which really were made for giving."