"And that," she whispered, "is the true me, behind that smiling mask, behind my protection. This is me."

They were silent for a moment, man and girl, staring at one another. And then her uncle reached for an Albion cigar.

"I hope you weren't expecting me to be shocked by that, Maridan," he said, and his voice was friendly and conversational.

She wasn't sure what she had expected him to say, and so she was silent.

"But you see, the thing is—" He lit his cigar upon the candle flame, turned it methodically this way, that way, until it caught. "It seems to be all the fashion now and days, people hiding their true selves behind smiling masks. I'm all for it, actually. It saves those without problems the trouble of dealing with all the melodrama and melancholy."

She felt herself going cold inside, as he took his cigar and set it to his lips.

"It's when people start flinging the masks aside and making a fuss about their tortured souls and weeping hearts that things get… uncomfortable." He held the cigar to the light and examined it, as though it were a glass of wine and he sought flaws in the liquid. "Society is comfort in a group, Maridan, my dear, and when society people begin bringing their private selves to public dinners, well… You have an imagination, my love, use it now and help your poor uncle out. Can you see why I'll have none of this smiling mask and weeping soul business?"

"I see," she said.

"That's trash for the poets; let them deal with that." He waved his hand, and smoke curled through the air.

"You know," he continued, turning his back on her, moving toward the window, and she felt herself forgotten, "art, despite the drama and overdose of sugar that it is, really serves a purpose in society. It gives people some place in which to mirror their private selves. Art is the fellow who gives a damn for your troubles, who sits down with you over coffee and cigars and lets you vomit your offal onto his plate—you will excuse my language?" He glanced at her over his shoulder. She shrugged.

"But there it is, Maridan, there it is. Art is the only place in which the smiling mask and weeping soul should ever be glimpsed. Never outside. Leave the tears and dual personalities to the poets and writers and artist people. Society wants real conversation, not tears. And you know, too? There's too much art in the cities. That's the problems with cities; it's not the trash in the streets and corpses in the alleys—it's the art. All the tears and sentiment: they rot the foundation and the world falls down around them."

"I am needed downstairs, uncle."

"Oh really?" He looked at her, as if he saw her for the first time; his eyes narrowed, speculatively; he drew upon his cigar and blew the smoke toward the bust of Trix Koljara. "Something up?"

"Grandma might want me." She inched backward a step. The lie thrummed between them.