So Lilly Czepanek, with the force of conviction, recounted her life history. She almost believed in her own words. As a matter of fact, it was a fair picture of her life, such as Richard had once portrayed it, before she had begun to slip into the abyss the night of the carnival. Of Kellermann and Dr. Salmoni and the whole "crew," of course, she said nothing. But she alluded to her unfortunate art with tears--for the last time, she said--then it should never be mentioned again. She concluded. When, with a hesitating feeling of security, she looked up to him expecting to receive his absolution, she started at the change in his appearance. His face was livid, his eyes, fastened on the ceiling, glowed unnaturally, deep furrows of anguish had cut themselves into his cheeks. "Doesn't he believe me?" flashed through her head. He jumped up, and snatched Richard's picture from the secrétaire, and carried it to the light of the standing lamp. Lilly knew he was thinking of Walter, and timidly interjected: "That isn't he." "Then who is it?" "His friend--the manufacturer." He cast the picture aside. "Haven't you a picture of _his_?" Yes--but where was it? The large pastel was in the lumber room. The small one very likely was stowed away in some drawer. "I packed it away," she excused herself, "because I couldn't bear to have it in my sight all the time." She did not tell him why the sight of it annoyed her. She preferred him to assume the cause was her newly awakened love. How ridiculous, how pitiful it all was! She longed to sink at his feet and cry to him: "Forgive me, forgive me--take me as I am, do not spurn me." Instead, she lied on, shamelessly, desperately, like an ordinary adventuress on the verge of discovery. "Will you do me the favour to hunt for the picture?" "Why do you want to torture yourself?" "Please, I beg of you." Further resistance was out of the question. She fetched the key of the secretary from a basket, opened the drawers at random, rummaged among the papers without half looking, and actually found it. There it was. She had not seen it for years. The white-lashed eyes looked haughty and cunning. "Lie and deceive, lie and deceive," they seemed to say. "That's just what I used to do." "Here it is." He stepped to the lamp, and stared at the picture long. His lips twitched from time to time, the picture quivered jerkily in his hands. "Exactly the way I stood in front of the rich orphan's photograph," thought Lilly. But that was long ago. Then she heard him speak. His voice was hoarse. "Will you answer a question upon which much depends?" "Ask it, my love." "Do you still count upon--upon this young man's return?" Whither did the question lead? Lilly felt she need merely say "no," and every obstacle was removed. But if she said no, all her falsehoods about Walter and his friend would have had no significance. So she had to choose a middle course.