time to begin."

After I had said good-night and had my hand on the door-handle, she
said:

"What do you think? Is Polya still living there?"

"Probably."

And I went off to my room. So we spent a whole month. One grey
morning when we both stood at my window, looking at the clouds which
were moving up from the sea, and at the darkening canal, expecting
every minute that it would pour with rain, and when a thick, narrow
streak of rain covered the sea as though with a muslin veil, we
both felt suddenly dreary. The same day we both set off for Florence.

XVI

It was autumn, at Nice. One morning when I went into her room she
was sitting on a low chair, bent together and huddled up, with her
legs crossed and her face hidden in her hands. She was weeping
bitterly, with sobs, and her long, unbrushed hair fell on her knees.
The impression of the exquisite marvellous sea which I had only
just seen and of which I wanted to tell her, left me all at once,
and my heart ached.

"What is it?" I asked; she took one hand from her face and motioned
me to go away. "What is it?" I repeated, and for the first time
during our acquaintance I kissed her hand.

"No, it's nothing, nothing," she said quickly. "Oh, it's nothing,
nothing. . . . Go away. . . . You see, I am not dressed."

I went out overwhelmed. The calm and serene mood in which I had
been for so long was poisoned by compassion. I had a passionate
longing to fall at her feet, to entreat her not to weep in solitude,
but to share her grief with me, and the monotonous murmur of the
sea already sounded a gloomy prophecy in my ears, and I foresaw
fresh tears, fresh troubles, and fresh losses in the future. "What
is she crying about? What is it?" I wondered, recalling her face
and her agonised look. I remembered she was with child. She tried
to conceal her condition from other people, and also from herself.
At home she went about in a loose wrapper or in a blouse with
extremely full folds over the bosom, and when she went out anywhere
she laced herself in so tightly that on two occasions she fainted
when we were out. She never spoke to me of her condition, and when
I hinted that it might be as well to see a doctor, she flushed
crimson and said not a word.

When I went to see her next time she was already dressed and had
her hair done.

"There, there," I said, seeing that she was ready to cry again. "We
had better go to the sea and have a talk."

"I can't talk. Forgive m