In an agony of apprehension she sought comfort with Adele, whose dry, peevish face perceptibly brightened. She seemed to be in her element when it came to deceiving a person, or, better still, two persons. "The best thing," she said, "would be for you to say a sick friend had asked you to come. Something sad like that takes them all in." She knew it from experience, she assured Lilly. That evening her friends did not get much entertainment out of Lilly. She disregarded the gentlemen, and gave the ladies rude answers. Mrs. Jula, the only one whose presence would have pleased her, was absent, as had become usual of late. They finally left her to herself and Richard, the dear fellow, who had hoped to parade his possession, helplessly gnawed the ends of his moustache. The next morning Lilly again suffered the torments of dread. When she had come home the night before, despite the late hour, she had awakened Adele, who said he had come and had looked dreadfully upset. He had gone away without saying anything. Another day spent in nervously counting the minutes. She stood in front of the mirror, utterly despondent, and dressed herself for him. She would have liked to sink at his feet when he entered. Nevertheless she determined to maintain in words and gesture, then and in the future, a certain gentle, melancholy grandeur of manner which would nip suspicion in the bud, and would correspond with the picture of her he had drawn in his verses. When she thought that that stupid, much-kissed head of hers should from now on be a "head divine," she grew thoroughly ill at ease from sheer sanctity. At half past seven the bell rang. She received him with a conventional smile, and the gentle, melancholy grandeur, which she succeeded in adopting perfectly, concealed her harassed spirits. His manner, she saw at the first glance, was also constrained. His eyes glided past her with a singularly empty expression. "He has divined everything," her soul cried. But she bore up nobly. "I must beg your pardon," she said, "for not having kept our appointment." "I hope your friend is feeling better," he said, while a disdainful smile of doubt played about his lips. She made all kinds of explanations, said whatever came into her head; and without looking at him, she knew he believed not a syllable. "I must beg _your_ pardon," he rejoined after she had finished, with the same lurking disdain in his voice and smile. "Why?" "I sent you some verses which I hope you will consider nothing more than what they really are, a mere harmless stylistic effort without sense or significance." "He's already withdrawing," her guilty conscience cried; and all the colder and worldlier was her reply. "I admit your pretty verses did astonish me at first. I couldn't conceive that I was a fitting subject to inspire them. But then I thought you probably meant nothing more than what you just now said, and I did not feel offended. If you wish we won't say more about it."