He had the uncomfortable impression that she was quoting something again.
"My mood," she went on, "is in what Goethe calls the minor of the soul. It is the yearning that reaches out afar and yet restrains itself harmoniously within itself. Isn't that beautifully put?"
"It may be, but it's too high for me!" In laughing self-protection, he stretched out his arms toward her.
"Don't make fun of me," she said, slightly shamed, and arose.
"And what is the object of your yearning?" he asked in order to leave the realm of Goethe as swiftly as possible. "Not you, you horrible person," she answered and, for a moment, touched his hair with her lips.
"I know that, dearest," he said, "it's a long time since you've sent me two notes a day."
"And since you came to see me twice daily," she returned and gazed at the floor with a sad irony.
"We have both changed greatly, Alice."
"We have indeed, Richard."
A silence ensued.