"The people," she went on, "who are sure of _me_; who think I'm so easy to know. They don't know me, and they don't know that I know them. And they're the only people I've ever, ever met. I can tell what they're going to say before they've said it. It's always the same thing. It's--if you like--the inevitable thing. If you can't have anything but the same thing, at least you like it put a little differently. You'd think, among them all, they might find it easy to put it a little differently sometimes; but they never do; and it's the brutal monotony of it that I cannot stand." "I suppose," said Lucy, "people _are_ monotonous." "They don't know," said she, evidently ignoring his statement as inadequate, "they don't know how sick I am of it--how insufferably it bores me." "Ah! there you see--that's what _I'm_ afraid of." "What?" "Of saying the wrong thing--the--the same thing." "That's it. You'd say it differently, and it wouldn't be the same thing at all. And what's more, I should never know whether you were going to say it or not." "There's one thing I'd like to say to you if I knew how--if I knew how you'd take it. You see, though I think I know you----" he hesitated. "You don't really? You don't know who I am? Or where I come from? Or where I'm going to? I don't know myself." "I know," said Lucy, "as much as I've any right to. But unluckily the thing I want to know----" "Is what you haven't any right to?" "I'm afraid I haven't. The thing I want to know is simply whether I can help you in any way." She smiled. "Ah," said she, "you _have_ said it." "Haven't I said it differently?" "I'm not sure. You looked different when you said it; that's something." "I know I've no right to say it at all. What I mean is that if I could do anything for you without boring you, without forcing myself on your acquaintance, I'd be most awfully glad. You know you needn't recognise me afterward unless you like. Have I put it differently now?" "Yes; I don't think I've ever heard it put quite that way before." There was a long pause in which Lucy vainly sought for illumination. "No," said Mrs. Tailleur, as if to herself; "I should never know what you were going to say or do next." "Wouldn't you?" "No; I didn't know just now whether you were going to speak to me or not. When I said I wanted to walk I didn't know whether you'd come with me or not." "I came." "You came; but when I go----" "You're not going?" "Yes; to-morrow, perhaps, or the next day. When I go I shall give you my address and ask you to come and see me; but I shan't know whether you'll come." "Of course I'll come." "There's no 'of course' about you; that's the charm of it. I shan't know until you're actually there." "I shall be there all right." "What? You'll come?" "Yes; and I'll bring my sister." "Your sister?" She drew back slightly. "Turn round, please--this way--and let me look at you." He turned, laughing. Her eyes searched his face.