Lilly felt there was a note of blame in his tone, as if his susceptibilities had been offended. "But I'm not in the least sorry," she hastened to add. "All in all I lead a much freer and pleasanter life. And I haven't the slightest cares. I have a charming little home. In fact, I'm in the best of circumstances. And I'd be ever so happy if you were to come and see for yourself. I'm always at home in the middle of the day. And I'd like you to dine with me some time." "Oh," he said, obviously moved by the pleasant prospect. She drew a breath of relief at having steered so smoothly past the rocks of her autobiography. And he asked no questions. On the other hand he seemed as little disposed to be communicative in regard to his own situation past or present. "Life has a sunny and a shady side," he said, "and he who sits on the shady side would do well to reflect whether or not he should speak much of it." "But you can trust an old friend like me," cried Lilly. "Imagine we're sitting here on our porch in Junkerstrasse. Do you recollect? That evening we spoke to each other the first time was an evening just like this, in May." "It was warmer," he rejoined quickly, and drew his coat together at his neck. "Are you chilly?" she asked, laughing, because she was aglow. "I didn't bring--" he paused an instant--"I didn't bring my spring overcoat along to-night." "Then we'd better get up," she said, becoming meditative. "We can tell each other all we have to say just as well walking as sitting." So they strolled about the dark church a number of times, but no autobiographical narrative resulted. She evaded and he evaded, and when forced to speak, they regaled each other with generalities. Lilly praised her happy lot in life, and he sighed repeatedly. "Yes, it's hard, very hard!" Exactly as once during examinations. The rhythm of it still sounded in her ears, as if she had heard it the day before. "How are your father and mother?" she asked to change the subject. His father had died two years before after a short sickness, and his mother still sewed neckties. He adjusted something invisible under his raised coat collar, probably a gayly patterned testimony of maternal skill and goodness. After Lilly had expressed her sympathy she ventured with throbbing heart to inquire after Mrs. Asmussen and her daughters. Mr. Redlich smacked his lips audibly. "Very unpleasant neighbours. The elder girl married a paymaster, who will probably be dismissed soon on account of his irregularities. The younger has charge of the library, the mother is completely in the clutches of drink." He spoke with the same offended air as when Lilly had referred to her divorce. "He must be extremely moral still!" she thought, with a sense of her own guilt and unworthiness. But he was unhappy. That was certain.