“Yes—yes—yes!”
She felt that he was near weeping, and led him into the darkest corner of the drawing-room, toward two armchairs hidden by a small screen of antique silk. They sat down behind this slight embroidered wall, veiled also by the gray shadow of a rainy day.
She resumed, pitying him, deeply moved by his grief:
“My poor Olivier, how you suffer!”
He leaned his white head on the shoulder of his friend.
“More than you believe!” he said.
“Oh, I knew it! I have felt it all. I saw it from the beginning and watched it grow.”
He answered as if she had accused him: “It is not my faulty, Any.”
“I know it well; I do not reproach you for it.”
And softly, turning a little, she laid her lips on one of Olivier's eyes, where she found a bitter tear.