It was difficult to her to say his name. But she said it firmly.
“Signora, it is nearly three o’clock.”
“Half-past two. No, I can get in all right.”
He had put out his arm to help her into the boat. But she could not touch him. She knew that. She felt that she would rather die at the moment than touch or be touched by him.
“You might take away your arm.”
He dropped his arm at once.
Had she already betrayed herself?
She got into the boat and he pushed off.
Usually he sat, when he was rowing, so that he might keep his face towards her. But to-day he stood up to row, turning his back to her. And this change of conduct made her say to herself again:
“Have I betrayed myself already?”