“And where shall I write to you?”
“I will let you know. Let us walk towards the house; you must not go back alone. We will part there.”
“Come as far as the door of the museum; I came out there and can get in again.”
They walked on; Leon with his right arm round Pepa and holding both her hands in his left.
“It is a dark night,” observed Pepa, with that inexplicable impulse to speak of trivial things which comes over us when the mind is fully occupied with a fixed train of ideas.
“Are you happy?” asked Leon trying to speak lightly.
“How should I be when you are going away? And yet I am, glad of all you have said to me. It is a mixture of pain and gladness. First I say to myself: ‘what joy!’ and then I feel that I shall die of grief.”
“And I feel just the same,” said Leon gloomily. They were at the door of the museum.
“Good-bye, good-bye,” she said, “remember, you are mine.”