“Just see,” she replied.
He was left uncomfortably in his own limited world, feeling that she had shot off into regions to which he could not follow her. He ought to have been accustomed to that by now, but he could not be. She was always hinting at the wonderful things she got out of him, but as he was never conscious of them, he could not understand her. He used to tell himself that it was her queer roundabout way of delighting in her love for him.
On the Thursday she said:
“You know, René, at such a distance we shall be able to get our ideas of each other clear. That is so necessary. We must make an effort to understand each other.”
“Isn’t it enough if we love each other?”
“Oh no. That only means making allowances. It isn’t enough to do that. I get frightened sometimes when I think of all the people who are married, how little they understand each other.”
“Then they’re married without loving each other.”
“I think I see what you mean,” and she caught his hand and pressed it to her bosom. She had become much more demonstrative in these days of parting. He warmed to her excitement and rushed ahead:
“People who love each other are married. I’ve been thinking about it. If people love each other they have the wonderful mutual knowledge which is marriage. And we have that, haven’t we?”