“You see why it was so foolish to be sad,” he remarked, as they approached the bridge; “here is the second time that you have seen the Isar since you weep good-bye forever this afternoon.”
“I didn’t weep,” she said indignantly.
“Did you not? I thought that you did.”
They waited for another car at the end of the bridge; the island where the Isarlust sports its lights and music all summer, looked particularly deserted in the contrast of this October night. She spoke of the fact.
“You were often there?” he asked; “yes?”
“With who?”
She smiled a little in the dark.
“We used to come in the evenings,” she said; “every one used to come.”
Another car approached—again crowded.