“When?”
“A year ago. You are not sorry?”
He turned away his eyes.
“No.”
“You aren’t going to be sorry for anything?”
As she pressed him for an answer he replied, almost sternly:
“No, never.”
She leant nearer to him to reach his lips, and in his eyes she caught a distant look that frightened her. The something that had been separating them all day, all this last day of their year of tenderness, showed there now with more distinctness than ever. She said at last something that prudence should have counselled her to leave unsaid:
“Maurice, where is Chambéry?”
“Down there.”