"Ah, well, it changes, doesn't it? Even if it is no longer the same landscape it changes!"
After a silence he added: "How fragile it is!"
"What?"
"You!" He covered her hand with both his. "You! What I think you are, and what you think I am. Love and illusion. Too fragile to be given to us with our blunders and our nonsense."
She watched him, silent, and he went on:
"I don't understand this life. That's why I keep quiet and smile, as you say I do. There are often things I don't say when I smile."
"What things?"
"Oh, I wonder how much you believe me. And I listen to that immense interior life, which talks such a different language. I hate to move on to Chantilly."
Suddenly she recognised that they were at a corner which he had wanted her to turn for days. There had been something he had hinted at, something he wanted to tell her. He chafed at some knowledge he had which she did not share, which he wanted her to share.
Once he had said: "I had letters this morning which worried me…."