Violently torn out of sweet dreams and plunged into bitter reality! But now she must be on her guard. She must not lose his esteem. "In a way," she replied. "A very modest sort of art which I used to pursue. But it made me very happy. I learned it just after I lost my husband"--the fatal "divorce" would not pass her lips--"less for the sake of a livelihood than to lend my life content. But then I had to give it up--because--of a trouble with my eyes." Three lies in the same breath. Why not? She was lies within and lies without. Every gesture, every thought was a lie. But the great cry of her soul vibrating through her entire being, "You shall be mine; I will be yours," was _not_ a lie. And for his sake she continued to lie. "I don't like to speak of it." She wiped her eyes with her handkerchief. "It still pains me. And please don't ever again refer to it in the future." "Again," "in the future," she had said, as if taking it for granted that they would continue to meet. Her words filled her with shame and confusion. She rose and turned her face aside. "I beg pardon," he said, abashed. "I could not have divined--" He rose to take leave. "Stay, stay, stay!" her soul cried. But she was unable to speak. She was benumbed. Perhaps he had seen through her lies, and had instantly realised who she was, and did not care to remain. She felt haughtiness congealing her features. "It was very kind of you," she said, graciously extending her finger tips. The moment had come in which to invite him to visit her, but the words froze on her lips. He had turned very pale and looked straight into her face expectantly. "I hope we meet some time again," he said finally. "I hope so," she replied very formally. He lightly touched her hand with his lips and left. Over! Over! And her fault! Happiness had come, had laid its blessing hand on her forehead, and had flown away again, leaving behind nothing but this pain, a wild pain, such as she had never before felt. It fairly tore at her throat and heart like a physical affliction. During the night she devised a thousand schemes for hunting him up and meeting him again. He was a scholar and probably frequented the library. She would go there and read and study, and some day she would surely meet him. Or, simpler still, she would write to him. "I don't love you," she would say. "Why should I? I scarcely know you. But I am confident that I could be something in your life. Therefore--" Then, disgusted with her lack of dignity, she rejected every plan. No, Lilly Czepanek after all would not throw herself away in such fashion. Once more it became impossible for her to remain at home. In the daytime she walked along the Potsdamer Strasse and Leipziger Strasse, where the metropolitan bustle is the greatest. In the evenings she did not visit distant districts as formerly, but with a busy air hurried incessantly up and down the lonely banks of the canal near her home.