She lifted up her hand and closed his big eyes with its soft touch.
“I loved you in Lucerne,” she declared to his blindness, “that first moment when I saw you walking on the Quai. I did not know why, but I felt that I must know you.”
He snatched her hand away and laughed.
“Voilà!” he exclaimed; “what have I say to you that time in Munich, that the women are always gênées! You love in Lucerne, and insist not for all the summer after.”
Then they laughed together.
“Would you have liked me to have told you there on the Quai? would you have believed it?”
“Yes,” he said gravely; “I would have believed it very well, because I also knew the same. In the hotel I had seen you, and on the Promenade I said myself, ‘Voilà la jolie Américaine encore une fois!’ You see!”
She wondered how she had ever for a moment thought that his eyes were melancholy, they appeared so big and bright and joyous now.
“When did you come?” she remembered to ask after a long time.
“I am come yesterday morning.”