When the table was cleared they gave themselves up to talk. Frances Mary had an insatiable curiosity concerning Wilfred’s friends, whom she had never seen, and his daily doings. He enjoyed feeding it of course; but was sometimes troubled by the feeling that he was inflicting himself unduly on his friend. When he remembered to try to draw her out, she was generally too many for him. “What have you been doing lately, Frances Mary?” “Nothing.” “Tell me about your friends.” “I can’t make them sound as interesting as you do yours.” “What do you do with yourself? You can’t write all the time.” “I ruminate,” said Frances Mary flippantly. Wilfred laughed. “I can see you!” he said unguardedly. “I know you so well!” She looked at him quickly, started to speak, and thinking better of it, pulled down the corners of her mouth mockingly. “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!” A note of real bitterness had crept into Frances Mary’s voice, and Wilfred felt that he was on the brink of a disclosure. But while he was still trying to puzzle out her meaning in his mind, he discovered that he had been hurried on to something else. It was a trick of hers. She was now asking him about his experiences in society. “Oh, I couldn’t keep that up,” said Wilfred with his glib, surface mind. “It was useful to see a few interiors, and get a line on the way those people talk; but it’s deadly, really. You can’t let yourself go. It was cruel hard on a child of nature like me! And Mrs. Gore’s dinners weren’t as good as yours. Not by a damn sight.” “I thought perhaps you might make a friend or two.” “Hardly, in that milieu.”