And yet, though they felt the same, when they were together—or imagined that they did—in reality they knew nothing of each other. Sabine did not bother about it. Christophe was more curious. One evening he asked her:
"Do you like music?"
"No," she said simply. "It bores me, I don't understand it."
Her frankness charmed him. He was sick of the lies of people who said that they were mad about music, and were bored to death when they heard it: and it seemed to him almost a virtue not to like it and to say so. He asked if Sabine read.
"So. She had no books."
He offered to lend her his.
"Serious books?" she asked uneasily.
"Not serious books if she did not want them. Poetry."
"But those are serious books."
"Novels, then."