least, remained stationary in Metz. She was full of another thought--the
vagueness, the precariousness of the chance that even in Metz had
brought them together.

"How lucky...."

"How lucky what?"

How lucky? How lucky? He begged, implored, frowned, tried to peer. He
would not let her rest. "Why should you hide what you think? I don't
like it."

Oh, no, he did not like it. No one likes to get hint of that fountain of
talk which, sweet or bitter, plays just out of reach of the ear, just
behind the mask of the face.

"How lucky that you held the inspection!" had all but stolen from her
lips. But this implied too clearly that it was lucky for somebody--for
her, for him. And how could she say that? Her thoughts were so far in
advance of her confessions. A dozen sentences rose to her lips, all too
clear, too intimate. So she became silent before the things that she
could not say.

"Of what are you thinking?"

Extortionate question. ("Am I to put all my fortune in your hand like
that? Am I to say, 'Of you, of you'?") For every word she said aloud she
said a hundred to herself; and after three words between them she had
the impression of a whole conversation.