“Why?”
“It’s night.”
“I’m not afraid.”
“I’ll go with you, Madame.”
He said it again harshly and kept his eyes on her, frowning.
“And if I refuse?” she said, wondering whether she was going to refuse or not.
“I’ll follow you, Madame.”
She knew by the look on his face that he, too, was thinking of what had happened in the afternoon. Why should she wish to deprive him of the reparation he was anxious to make—obviously anxious in an almost piteously determined way? It was poor pride in her, a mean little feeling.
“Come with me,” she said.
They went on together.