"Well," she said, "I wish you'd talk to me sitting down. I don't know
what's come over you this last day or two."

He sat down. He did not feel really intimate with her at that moment.
And their marriage seemed to him, in a way, artificial, scarcely a fact.
He did not know that it takes years to accomplish full intimacy between
husband and wife.

"You know," he said, "Henry Leek isn't my real name."

"Oh, isn't it?" she said. "What does that matter?"

She was not in the least surprised to hear that Henry Leek was not his
real name. She was a wise woman, and knew the strangeness of the world.
And she had married him simply because he was himself, because he
existed in a particular manner (whose charm for her she could not have
described) from hour to hour.

"So long as you haven't committed a murder or anything," she added, with
her tranquil smile.

"My real name is Priam Farll," he said gruffly. The gruffness was caused
by timidity.

"I thought Priam Farll was your gentleman's name."

"To tell you the truth," he said nervously, "there was a mistake. That
photograph that was sent to you was my photograph."