“When does your train leave?”
“At eight.”
“There is an hour yet,” I said, glancing at my watch.
“Yes, there is just an hour,” she repeated, monotonously, as if glad of something commonplace to say. And again we came to a stop.
“When do you reach Belgrade?” It was a fatuous question; but as I could not speak of what filled my heart, I had to speak at haphazard.
“I don’t know. We travel all night, I suppose;” and there was an end of that subject.
“Shall we sit down? The view is lovely,” I said next.
“Oh, don’t, for God’s sake, don’t.” It was a cry right from her heart. “Can’t you see what you are making me suffer, and you talk to me of trains and views?”
“We must talk of something,” I replied, a little doggedly.
“Why do you come here?” she asked, turning upon me fiercely. “If you had been the man I deemed you, you would have done as I asked—after what I told Father Michel to tell you.”