She made no answer, but, gradually recovering her self-possession, and without removing her eyes from his face she advanced towards him with her hand still in her pocket.
“It must be a very interesting letter and a great secret,” he said with a forced laugh, “since you conceal it so quickly.”
With her eyes still upon him she sat down on the divan.
“Show me the letter,” he laughed, betraying his agitation by a tremor of the voice. “You will not show it?” he went on as she looked at him in amazement and pressed her hand tighter in her pocket.
She shook her head.
“I don’t need to read it. What possible interest could I have in another person’s letter? I only wanted a proof of your confidence, of your friendly disposition towards me. You see my indifference. See, I am not as I was,” he said, telling himself at the same time that the letter obsessed him.
She tried, to read in his face the indifference in which he was insisting. His face indeed wore an aspect of indifference, but his voice sounded as if he were pleading for alms.
“You will not show it,” he said. “Then God be with you,” and he turned to the door.
“Wait,” she said, putting her hand in her pocket and drawing out a letter which she showed him.
He looked at both sides, and glanced at the signature, Pauline Kritzki.