"We shall be late—let us go in."
Philippe Lagier, who was standing on the square and had witnessed this scene, came up to her, but made no allusion to what he had just overheard, so as not to offend her. They were nearing the church steps. She placed her foot on the first step.
"Are you not coming in?"
"Yes. Does that surprise you? I love the Catholic services. They are incomparably poetical. To-day I shall go in to find the spring."
"Are you not seeking something else there?"
She smiled with that melancholy half-smile which harmonized so completely with her appealing expression. But she herself, had she confidence in God? She continued to mount the steps when he stopped her, not without visible emotion, but with great respect.
"Listen, Madame, I find you so changed...."
She wished to joke.
"Changed? It seems that it must be for the better. I have just heard so."
"Yes. Italians have the privilege of crying out what we must content ourselves with thinking. It is not a question of that. The winter has affected your health somewhat: it is evident—you must consult...."