They went out with the old woman, who closed the door.
"It was very sweet of you to let me come," repeated Paule, because she had to say something. It was harder than she had thought possible.
"I have seen no one at all," said Giselle. "But your letter—I don't know—I wondered——"
They stood looking at one another. Of course, they did not touch one another's hands.
Suddenly the room seemed to swim about Paule, there was a surging in her ears. She said, "May I sit down?"
"But I beg you! I am sorry, I can't seem to think of things. Here in the window?"
Paule dragged the chair out of the light of the sunshiny June morning into the shadow of the curtain. She was wearing a heavy white lace veil, but she did not want to face the sunshine.
Giselle threw herself into the chair where she had been sitting before. Her crape and the traces of many tears upon her face only made her look the more pathetically young.
"You wondered," said Paule, "if my letter were true, really; if it were possible that I could honestly write like that of him?"