"And shall we forget our dead?" she asked.
His lips closed together with brutal force. His eyes were hot with self-control.
Then he stooped for her muff, which had rolled to the ground, brushing it lightly with his hand. As he gave it to her he rose to his feet.
"Shall we return?" he asked. "It has grown cloudy."
She rose also, but stood for an instant with her hand resting upon the back of the bench. Her lips opened, but closed again, and she turned and walked at his side in silence.
Suddenly he looked at her.
"It is late," he said, "as you doubtless know, and I have neglected a call. May I leave you to go on alone?" Then his voice softened. "Are you ill?" he asked—"or in pain?"
She laughed mirthlessly.
"You are too strong," she returned, "to stoop to irony."
"It was not irony," he answered, gently.