"What love?" asked George, preoccupied.
"Ours."
"Do you feel that it is growing cold?"
"In me, no," replied Hippolyte significantly.
"But you think it is in me?" persisted George.
An ill-concealed irritation lent sharpness to his words. Fixing his gaze on her, he repeated: "But you think it is in me? Don't you?"
She remained silent, her head drooping still lower.
"You won't answer? You know you're not telling the truth."
There was a pause. Both felt an unspeakable desire to read the other's heart. Then he continued:
"That is how the agony of love begins. You are not as yet aware of it, but since your return I have studied you ceaselessly and I daily discover in you a new symptom."