"And I don't in the least regret it," she added quickly, "for, taking things altogether, I live a much freer and happier life than I did before. I have no cares, and my little home is delightful. I am in the happiest circumstances and ought to be thankful. I should be so very pleased if you would come and convince yourself that it is so.... You would always find me at home in the middle of the day.... Perhaps you will dine with me some time?" "Oh!" he said, apparently agreeably surprised. She gave a sigh of relief at having steered clear of the rocks of her autobiography. He made no further inquiries. But he seemed equally unwilling to give information about himself, either with regard to his present or his past circumstances. "Life has its shady side," he said, "and when one finds one's self among the shadows, it's a question whether it's advisable to speak about it." "But I am such an old friend!" cried Lilly. "You can confide in me. Fancy that we are sitting on the old terrace in the Junkerstrasse.... Don't you remember ... that time we first spoke to each other? It was just such a May evening as this." "It was warmer," he replied, turning up the collar of his jacket as far as his ears. "You are cold?" she asked, laughing, for she was aglow from head to foot. "I haven't"--he paused--"my summer overcoat with me to-night." "Oh, then we had better get up," she said, becoming thoughtful; "we can talk just as well walking about." And so they paced up and down in the shadow of the old church; but the interchange of personal confidences flagged. He evaded questions and she evaded them, and they put each other off with generalities. She extolled her happy lot; he sighed over his: "It's hard--very hard!" just as he had done at the time of his examination; she could hear him as plainly as if it were yesterday. "How are your people?" she asked, to change the subject: His father had died after a short illness two years ago, his mother still made cravats. As he told her this, he settled the invisible tie under his upturned collar. No doubt he was wearing a gay token of maternal skill and maternal generosity. Then, when she had expressed her condolences, she inquired with a slightly beating heart how Frau Asmussen was, and her daughters. He made a sound with his lips as he answered: "They are very undesirable neighbours. The elder of the two girls has married a cashier, who is likely to lose his berth owing to irregularities. The younger has charge of the library, and the mother now drinks like a fish." He related this in the same outraged tone in which he had previously alluded to Lilly's divorce. "He is evidently still very proper," Lilly thought, with a sense of her own unworthiness and impropriety. He was unhappy, nevertheless. She was sure of that.