“I love this warm end of summer more than words can tell,” he said. ‘And, if this was not enough,’ went on the lady furiously, ‘you dare to say I am French. “But why,” he said in the gasping voice of one subduing an agony, and looked at her from under a pain-wrinkled brow, “why did you not tell me this before?” “I didn’t know—I thought I might be able to control myself. But it wasn’t the harassment that bothered her. I could not have spoken to her. A distant suggestion of chalets and a glimpse of the road set them talking for a time of the world they had left behind.
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