Edith was right. The present did not suffice him any more, had never sufficed him. By tacit consent they had both of them brushed aside the future, but into the past, of which they dared not speak, their minds looked when their mouths were mute. Silence, for him, became a supplication. Beyond those nearer mountains there, at this hour, what were they doing, those dear ones from whom he had no news?
Edith reappeared on the threshold, soliciting his approval.
“Don’t you think I look nice this morning?”
She wore a summer dress of white serge, which, without fitting too closely, outlined her flexible form, and a hat surmounted by white wings, which gave her whole person a finishing touch of light and slender grace. This year had rejuvenated her. Her eyes of fire could not have flashed more brilliantly than before, but her cheeks were rounder and less pale. Her thin body had taken on an appearance of weight, and through her whole person was diffused an indefinable and pervasive air of love.
He admired her, but did not put in words the compliment for which she waited.
They went down to the port of Orta by a steeply inclined path, paved with round stones, so little used that grass was growing in the crevices. In the square, before the bank where the boats were moored, they came upon a young girl in a red bonnet, whom they had already encountered several times in their walks and who must have lived somewhere near. The little foreigner stared at them, especially Maurice, without timidity.
“She is pretty,” remarked Maurice, after they had passed.
His companion made a little grimace of sadness, which for a moment brought back all her age.
“Don’t look at her,” she said. “I am jealous.”
“Jealous? And can’t I be, too?” he asked, teasing her for her severity.