"Propinquity, sir, propinquity," as the wise man said;--we all know the evils of it.
It was a lie, and a very common and everyday sort of lie.

Who, being behind the scenes, has not laughed in his sleeve to see it acted ?--Who has not admired and wondered at the cold and formal bow and shake of the hand, the tender inquiries after the health of the maiden aunt and the baby, the carelessly expressed wish that we may meet somewhere--all so palpably overdone?
_That_ the heroine of the impassioned scene at which we had unfortunately to assist an hour ago! Where are the tears, the convulsive sobs, the heartbroken grief?
And _that_ the young gentleman who saw nothing for it but flight or a pistol bullet! There, all the world's a stage, and fortunately most of us can act at a pinch.
Yes, we can act; we can paint the face and powder the hair, and summon up the set smile and the regulation joke and make pretense that things are as things were, when they are as different as the North Pole from the Torrid Zone.

But unfortunately, or fortunately--I do not know which--we cannot bedeck our inner selves and make them mime as the occasion pleases, and sing the old song when their lips are set to a strange new chant.

Of a surety there is within us a spark of the Eternal Truth, for in our own hearts we cannot lie.

And so it was with these two.