'You see, it is quite near,' she added. 'It is so long since you came! Why have you been so long?'
Othmar did not look at her as he replied:
'My dear, I have so many occupations, so few moments that I may call my own. And I had told you to write to me if you needed me.'
'I do not write very well,' she said, with a blush of shame at the confession. 'And I thought you would come when you wished.'
'When I could, would be more nearly the truth. I am not my own master in many ways.'
'No?'
To her it sounded very strange; to her he seemed the master of the world.
'No, indeed,' said Othmar bitterly.
He walked silently beside her a few moments. His dejection of tone, his weariness of manner communicated something of their sadness to her, and threw their shade over the shadowless and innocent joys of her soul. He roused himself with an effort.
'And you—I have heard of you often from Rosselin. Believe me, I did not forget you, if I seemed neglectful. You love the open air still, I see, though it is the chill grey air of the Seine-et-Oise instead of your own warm winter sunshine. What were you reading or reciting?—Dona Sol?'