You couldn't.

If I were to speak of a tearing, unutterable loneliness, if I were to speak of poverty--not the poverty you know anything about, but the poverty of bare walls, of coarse food and little enough of it, of everything cheap and miserable and soiled and second-hand--nothing fresh, nothing real--" He stopped abruptly.
"But I forgot," he muttered.

"I can't explain." "Is one to understand," she asked, a little puzzled, "that you have had difficulties in your business ?" "I have never been in business," he answered quickly.

"My name is Romilly, but I am not Romilly the manufacturer.

For the last eight years I have lived in a garret in London, teaching false art in a third-rate school some of the time, doing penny-a-line journalistic work when I got the chance; clerk for a month or two in a brewer's office and sacked for incapacity--those are a few of the real threads in my life." "At the present moment, then," she observed, "you are an impostor." "Exactly," he admitted, "and I should probably have been repenting it by now but for your words last night." She smiled at him and the sun shone once more.