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"You--why?"
"I don't know. Oh, I am absurd, probably. One has such strange ideas,
houses based on sand, or on air, or perhaps on nothing at all."
She got up, went to her writing-table, opened a drawer, and took out of
it a letter.
"Emile," she said, coming back to him with it in her hand, "would you
like to explain this to me?"
"What is it?"
"The letter I found from you when I came back from Capri."
"But does it need explanation?"
"It seemed to me as if it did. Read it and see."
He took it from her, opened it and read it.
"Well?" he said.
"Isn't the real meaning between the lines?"
"If it is, cannot you decipher it?"
"I don't know. I don't think so. Somehow it depressed me. Perhaps it
was my mood just then. Was it?"
"Perhaps it was merely mine."
"But why--'I feel specially this summer I should like to be near you'?
What does that mean exactly?"
"I did feel that."
"Why?"
"I don't think I can tell you now. I am not sure that I could even have
told you at the time I wrote that letter.


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