And here a deadlock arose once more in the conversation.
The crowd had begun to thin a little. Down the long vista of rooms it was possible now to distinguish a figure here and there in the throng. Outside the darkness had descended, veiling completely the white square. There was nothing now but the faint globes of light and the dim shooting rays of the passing motors.
The Governor turned suddenly and opened his mouth to speak. Then he closed it again sharply. It was clear that he had intended to say something and had lost his courage. He spoke at last, evading clearly what he had intended to say.
“Tell me.... Where’s Irene?”
“She’s buried.... She’s been buried these eleven years.”
The Governor frowned.
“I’d no idea,” he stammered. “I wouldn’t have asked if I had known.” He was sinking deeper in his confusion. There was something almost pitiful in his manner, so empty now of pompousness, so devoid of complacency.
Lily smiled. “Oh, she’s not dead. She’s a nun. She’s in the Carmelite convent at Lisieux ... I meant that she was buried so far as life is concerned. She’s lost to the world. She never leaves the convent, you know. It’s part of her vow. She’s buried there ... alive! It’s a living death.” All at once she cast down her eyes and shuddered. “Perhaps she is dead.... When one’s faith is killed one is not alive any more. You see, I killed her faith in this world. That’s all I meant. She’s really buried, ... alive, you understand.”
The Governor made a low whistling sound. “I’m not surprised.”
As if she did not hear him, Lily said, “I used to think that it was possible to live by one’s self, alone ... without touching the lives of others. It isn’t possible, is it? Life is far too complicated.”