Her first excursion was to Serge’s studio, where the portrait had been left unfinished. Bennett met her there, and, after the sitting, they had a long silent walk, arm in arm.
“I thought of you all the time,” said she.
“And I of you . . .” He was troubled. “Oh! Annette!”
He took her hand and, in the street as they were, kissed it over and over again.
She went away to the sea and Serge with her. She liked being with Serge, but even to him she could not declare herself. Under the warm sun with the strong air blowing over salt from the sea she quickly became well again, but all her longing was to get back. She was uneasy. When she had last seen Bennett she had felt that some of the glamour and delight had gone from him. He had changed. She must change with him. He had gone on. Gone deeper. She must go with him. She had never been trained to think. She never reasoned any difficulty out. All her perception of her circumstances came to her in flashes. . . . It was not long before she had caught Bennett up. She was not afraid, but only glad to be with him once more. She was proud of the new horizon that had opened to her. When health came back to her she was a woman.
One evening as she sat with Serge on the sands gazing at the moon peeping above the sea and silvering the waves she said:
“Serge, tell me, have you ever been in love?”
“Often.”
“Happily?”
“Happily and unhappily. It doesn’t matter much. The great thing is to love.”