and what you think I am. Love and illusion. Too fragile to be given to
us with our blunders and our nonsense."

She watched him, silent, and he went on:

"I don't understand this life. That's why I keep quiet and smile, as you
say I do. There are often things I don't say when I smile."

"What things?"

"Oh, I wonder how much you believe me. And I listen to that immense
interior life, which talks such a different language. I _hate_ to move
on to Chantilly."

Suddenly she recognised that they were at a corner which he had wanted
her to turn for days. There had been something he had hinted at,
something he wanted to tell her. He chafed at some knowledge he had
which she did not share, which he wanted her to share.

Once he had said: "I had letters this morning which worried me...."

"Yes?"

"One in particular. It hurt me. It gave me pain."

But she had not wanted to ask what was in the letter. Then he had grown
restless, sighed and turned away, but soon they had talked again and it
had passed.

And now to-night he said: