Christophe took Olivier's hands in his.
"I knew her," he said.
"Yes, I know," replied Olivier.
And he flung his arms round Christophe's neck.
"Poor girl! Poor girl!" said Christophe over and over again.
They were both in tears.
Christophe remembered then that Olivier was ill. He tried to calm him, and made him keep his arms inside the bed, and tucked the clothes up round his shoulders, and dried his eyes for him, and then sat down by the bedside and looked long at him.
"You see," he said, "that is how I knew you. I recognized you at once, that first evening."
(It were hard to tell whether he was speaking of the present or the absent friend.)
"But," he went on a moment later, "you knew?… Why didn't you tell me?"