“Oh, sure, that was a fatuous thing to say,” muttered Wilfred, blushing.
“It’s what everybody says to everybody,” she said.
“But I ought to have known better. Nobody knows anybody, really.”
“I don’t know,” said Frances Mary, “when two people live together they may. Because then they have a chance to watch each other in the company of others. But you and I travel in entirely separate orbits. The only point of intersection is your coming here to see me. And you don’t come very often. And if you find anybody else here you clear out immediately.”
“But surely we get more out of it. . . .”
“Surely! The point I was making is that all you see is your own facet of me.”
“Do you mean you show a different facet to everybody?”
“Oh, nothing so exciting. Alas! I am not different from other girls. I am always the same—at least I think I am. What I mean is, that you only see in me what you wish to see, and there is never anybody else around to upset your self-pleasing notions.”
“Oh, come!” said Wilfred.
“It’s just as well,” said Frances Mary with her mocking smile—she was mocking herself now. “Who wants the truth to be known about oneself? Especially a woman. Mystery is her existence. No matter how clever she is, she cannot escape the common fate of woman. Her own concerns are so unreal to her! . . . Mercy, what nonsense I am talking!”