The brusque answer catches Dankovsky off-guard, and he's momentarily thrown off, at a loss for words.

It lasts a few seconds, this awkward silence that follows her answer, but it feels like years. Dankovsky scrambles to catch up:

"Sensitive matter, I presume?"

Yes. Yes, obviously, love is a sensitive matter— were he sober enough to hear himself, he would be hiding his face in his hands in shame.