Then a long silence fell between them, while to their ears came the famous symphony of a famous composer. When the music ceased he spoke again.
“You will write to me?”
“I am not a letter writer.”
“But you will send me a few lines sometimes?”
“Are you going to write me?”
“Si vous voulez de mes nouvelles.”
“I will tell you,” he said, tossing his cigarette into the lake; “I will send you a post-card, as I tell you before—you recall? yes.”
“No,” said Rosina, with decision, “I don’t want post-cards; you can write me in an envelope or not at all.”
He looked at her thoughtfully.