Her voice was steady, but her hands were icy cold, and she was shivering.
He came close to her.
“May I? Then will you put my name in it, as well as yours? Here’s a pencil.”
She rested the book on the sundial, and bent low over it, perhaps because of the fading light.
“It’s too damp for you out here, in that thin dress,” he said in a low voice. “You’re shivering.” He touched her hand, and she shrank back against the sundial.
“Anne,” he said, still more softly, and his voice trembled. “Anne, I can’t say good-bye. Promise that you’ll come to Paris this winter. Promise! You will, won’t you?”
He took both her cold hands, and suddenly put them to his lips.
It was too dark to see her face, but he heard her catch her breath, and when she spoke, he scarcely recognized her voice.
“Good-bye, René. I want you to go now. Yes, I mean it. Please go.”
The words, so gently spoken that he knew he had not offended her, were full of the authority of a woman who expects to be obeyed. He hesitated a second, then bent his head again, and Anne felt him kiss the sleeve of her dress.