“And I may come to-morrow morning and we shall make a promenade together, n’est-ce pas?” he said eagerly; “it is so good, you and I together, these days. How can I make you know how I feel if you have not the same feeling,—the feeling that all the clouds and all the grass are singing, that all about us is perfect accord of sound, when we are only free to laugh and to talk as we may please.”
“But I ought to go on to my friends to-morrow,” she said, “you must know that.”
“But I will go there.”
“To Constance?”
“Yes, surely.”
“Oh, monsieur, that will not do at all!”
“Why will it not do at all?”
“I don’t want you following me to Constance as you did to Zurich.”
“But I will not follow you; I will this time go on the same train with you.”
“Oh,” she said, in despair at the wide space between his views and those of the world in general, “you cannot do that, it would not look well at all.”