Whether from sadness or absent-mindedness, she did not appear disposed to talk. He was the first to speak, breaking the silence that now separated them, instead of bringing them closer to each other.
“This day had to come, Edith. We have been happy here. But we must go. They are waiting for me in Paris. It will be the beginning of a new life.”
He hoped for an answer, some encouragement, and began again with some embarrassment:
“We’ll set up housekeeping for our love. We’ll have a home. I’ll take steps to legalise our situation, and get a divorce for you. You haven’t wanted me to do anything about it hitherto. We’ve broken all our bonds without a backward glance.”
Edith eluded this question of getting domiciled. She had only a confused idea of not leaving Italy, and seemed without a hint of any plan besides.
“How good it is at this hour of day,” she murmured. “Last evening I felt cold.”
He followed her lead patiently.
“Cold? The air is so soft it seems almost summer still.”
“And yet it’s autumn. Look.”
At their feet stretched the high irregular shores of the lake. Opposite them rose the clearly drawn forms of the mountains. Here and there a shrine, a village, or a tower fixed the salient points of the landscape for them. Trees and shrubs in a few days had changed their colours: only the group of pines kept their green intact in the pale gold sea.