EVEN on the day of their “anniversary” Maurice tried to persuade his companion to decide on their departure. After lunch he led her into the avenue that bounded the Sacred Mountain and widened at intervals into little terraces, with stone balustrades placed so as to give good views over the lake. The sunlight filled it everywhere, but at the end of October the sun was grateful and not a thing to shun. Whether from sadness or absent-mindedness, she did not appear disposed to talk. He was the first to speak, breaking the silence that now separated them, instead of bringing them closer to each other. “This day had to come, Edith. We have been happy here. But we must go. They are waiting for me in Paris. It will be the beginning of a new life.” He hoped for an answer, some encouragement, and began again with some embarrassment: “We’ll set up housekeeping for our love. We’ll have a home. I’ll take steps to legalise our situation, and get a divorce for you. You haven’t wanted me to do anything about it hitherto. We’ve broken all our bonds without a backward glance.” Edith eluded this question of getting domiciled. She had only a confused idea of not leaving Italy, and seemed without a hint of any plan besides. “How good it is at this hour of day,” she murmured. “Last evening I felt cold.” He followed her lead patiently. “Cold? The air is so soft it seems almost summer still.” “And yet it’s autumn. Look.” At their feet stretched the high irregular shores of the lake. Opposite them rose the clearly drawn forms of the mountains. Here and there a shrine, a village, or a tower fixed the salient points of the landscape for them. Trees and shrubs in a few days had changed their colours: only the group of pines kept their green intact in the pale gold sea. They were leaning on the balustrade. As in Savoy, the menacing beauty of things made Edith feel an almost painful ecstasy. With nostrils dilated and nerves taut, vibrating in all her being, she breathed in the autumn’s mortal grace. And he, gazing on that face across which some passion always stirred, that seemed to burn with some inner devouring flame behind the windows of her soul, that face which probably he had never yet seen in utter calm, could not tear his eyes away. Certain delicate lines, the coursing of the blood beneath her healthy skin, the smell of her dark hair, blotted out the beauty of the world for him, or rather gathered all beauty in that little space. He could not help noticing the effect upon her of the year that had slipped by. Her youth recovered, liberty, pleasure, the cities and works of art which they had seen together, had helped her and brightened her. Her heart had been seething with confused desires when they had set out, and her year had purified and completed her at the same time. Never until now had he appreciated so distinctly the work his love had wrought in her. He felt an anguished joy in reflecting that he might lose her.