Yet what was plain to the man who swept the mud from the streets was not
plain to them.
"Does he love me already?"
"Will she love me soon?"
When they saw other couples by the banks of the Moselle, Reason in a
convinced and careless voice said: "That is love!" But on coming towards
each other they were not sure at all, and each said of the other:
"To-morrow he may not meet me...." "To-morrow she will say she is busy
and it will not be true!"
When Fanny said, "He may not meet me," she was mad. How could he fail to
meet her when the rolling hours hung fire and buzzed about his head like
loaded bees, unable to proceed; when in a lethargy of vision he signed
his name at the bottom of the typewritten sheet, saying confusedly,
"What does she think? Does she think of me?"
When at last they met under the shadow of the Cathedral they would
exclaim in their hearts: "What next?" and hurry off by the Moselle,
looking into the future, looking into the future, and yet warding it
off, aware of the open speech that must soon lie between them, and yet
charmed by the beautiful, the merciful, the delay. And going home, each
would study the hours they had spent together, as a traveller returned
from wonderful lands pores over the cold map which for him sparkles with
mountains and rivers.
That very Saturday night after the early supper in their room in the
town, she had gone out to the big draper's shop which did not close till
seven, almost running into Reherrey on the pavement.
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