The real tragedy—which he sensed and toward which he was always reaching—eluded all his verbal skill. " "Mr. ‘Come, mademoiselle. He turned to observe what this object was that had so unexpectedly diverted the young man's attention. She saw her life before her robbed of all generous illusions, the wrappered life unwrappered forever, vistas of dull responses, crises of makebelieve, years of exacting mutual disregard in a misty garden of fine sentiments. That shining slope of snow, and how we talked of death! We might have died! Even when we are old, when we are rich as we may be, we won’t forget the tune when we cared nothing for anything but the joy of one another, when we risked everything for one another, when all the wrappings and coverings seemed to have fallen from life and left it light and fire. Too damned chickenhearted to confess to me he’d run off with the woman.
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