'Supposing I were to marry, I should not dare—what an absurd thought—to introduce you to my wife.'
A truly terrible expression came into her eyes; they narrowed to little slits, and turned slightly inwards; as though herself aware of it, she bent to pick the little cyclamen.
'Are you trying to tell me, Julian....'
'You told me you were engaged to Miloradovitch.'
She stood up, regardless, and he saw the tragic pallor of her face. She tore the cyclamen to pieces beneath her white fingers.
'It is true, then?' she said, her voice dead.
He began to laugh.
'You do indeed persuade yourself very easily.'
'Julian, you must tell me. You must. Is it true?'
'If it were?'