flowers. A little chestnut tree, that had sprouted all awry raised its twisted head towards the light! Near-by stood a wild cherry, into which the sparrows darted, twittering and alarmed. A jay passed like a flash of blue lightning. The wind crept in beneath the trees, stirring the bracken that darkened and lightened at its passage. A wounded bee fell on Rose's skirt.

"Poor bee! One of his wings is unhooked. I'll try and put it right."

"Take care," said Mr. Hervart. "It will sting. Animals never believe that you mean well by them. To them every one's an enemy."

"True," said Rose, shaking off the bee. "Your bugs will eat him and that will be a happy ending. Every one's an enemy."

Rose had spoken so bitterly that M. Hervart was quite distressed. He brought his face close to hers as her big straw hat would permit, and whispered:

"Are you unhappy?"

How beautifully women manage these things! In a flash the hat had disappeared, tossed almost angrily aside, and at the same moment an exquisitely pale and fluffy head dropped on to M. Hervart's shoulder.

It was a touching moment. Much moved, the man put his arm round the girl's waist. His hand took possession of the little hand that she surrendered to him. He had only to turn and bend his head a little, and he was kissing, close below the hair, a white forehead, feverishly moist. He felt her abandonment to him becoming more deliberate; the hand he was holding squeezed his own.

Rose made an abrupt movement which parted them, and looking full at M. Hervart, her face radiant with tenderness, she said:

"I'm not unhappy now."

She got up, and they moved away together through the wood, exchanging little insignificant phrases in voices full of tenderness. Each time their eyes met, they smiled. They kept on fingering leaves, flowers, mere pieces of wood, so as to have an excuse for touching each other's hand. Coming to a clearing where they could walk abreast, they allowed their arms on the inner side to hang limply down, so that their hands touched and were soon joined.

There was a silence, prolonged and very delightful. Each, meanwhile, was absorbed in his own thoughts.

"Obviously," M. Hervart was saying to himself, "if I have any sense left, I shall take the train home. First of all, I must go to Cherbourg and send a telegram to some one who can send a wire to recall me. What a nuisance! I was joying myself so much here. To whom shall I appeal? To Gratienne? I shall have to write a letter in that case, to concoct some story. Three or four days longer won't make matters any worse; I know these young girls. Time doesn't exist for them; they live in the absolute. So long as there's no jealousy—and I don't see how there can be—I shall be all right. She is really charming—Rose. Lord! what a state of excitement I'm in! But I must be reasonable. I shall tell Gratienne to meet me at Grandcamp. She has been longing to go to Grandcamp ever since she read that novel about the place. Besides, there are the rocks. I'm quite indifferent provided I get away from here...."

"What are you thinking about?"

"Can you ask, my dear child?"

A squeeze from the little hand showed that his answer had been understood. Silence settled down once more.

"Gratienne? At this very moment she's probably with another lover. But then, think of leaving a woman alone in Paris, in July? 'I am never bored. I dine at Mme. Fleury's every day; she loves having me. We start for Honfleur on the 25th. You must come and see us.' She imagines that Honfleur is close to Cherbourg. 'I am never bored,' Come, come; When women speak so clearly, it means they have nothing to hide.... On the contrary it's one of their tricks...."

"Well, my child, how's your wretchedness? Is it all over?"

"I am very happy," Rose answered.

A look from her big limpid eyes confirmed these solemn words and M. Hervart was more moved than at the moment of her surrender. The idea that he was the cause of this child's happiness filled him with pride.

"Better not disturb Gratienne. She's so suspicious. Whom shall I write to, then? My colleagues? No, I'm not on intimate enough terms. Gauvain, the animal-shop man? That would be humiliating. What a bore it all is! Leave it; we'll see later on. And after all, what's the matter? A little sentimental friendship. Rose lives such a lonely life. Why should I rob her of the innocent pleasure of playing—at sentiment with me? Summer-holiday amusements...."

"Oh," said Rose, "look at that beetle. Isn't he handsome."

But the animal, superb in its gold and sapphire armour, had disappeared under the dead leaves. They thought no more about it. Rose was occupied by very different thoughts. She felt herself filled with an exultant tenderness.

"I don't belong to myself anymore. It's very thrilling. What is going to happen? He'll kiss me on the eyes. There'll be no resisting, because I belong to him."

She lifted her head and looked at M. Hervart She seemed to be offering her eyes. Without changing her position she closed them. A kiss settled lightly on her soft eyelids.

"He does everything I expect him to do. Does he read my thoughts or do I read his?"

Meanwhile M. Hervart was trying to find something gallant or sentimental to say, and could think of nothing.

"I might praise her chestnut hair, with its golden lights, tell her how fine and silky it is. But is it? And besides, it might be a little premature. What shall I praise? Her mouth? Its rather large. Her nose? It's a little too hooked. Her complexion? Is it a compliment to say it's pale and opaque? Her eyes? That would look like an allusion. They're pretty, though—her eyes, the way they change colour."

He had picked a blade of grass as he walked. It was covered with little black moving specks. "What a bore," said M. Hervart, "I've forgotten to bring my microscope."

"I've got one, only the reflector's broken. It will have to be sent to Cherbourg."

"Couldn't you take it yourself?"

"If you like."

"But wouldn't you enjoy it, Rose?"

She was so pleased at being called Rose, that for a moment she did not answer. Then she said, blushing:

"You see, I scarcely ever go out of this place: the idea hardly occurs to me. But I should love to go with you."

She added with a spoilt child's tone of authority: "I'll go and tell father. We'll start after luncheon."

M. Hervart looked once more at his indecipherable grass blade.

"I know a good shop," he said. "Lepoultel the marine optician. Do you know him? He's a friend of Gauvain's...."

"The animal man?"

"What, do you mean to say you remember that?"

"I remember everything you tell me," answered Rose, very seriously.

M. Hervart was flattered. It occurred to him also that this sentimental child might make a very good practical little wife. His rather curious life passed rapidly before him and he called to mind some of the mistresses of his fugitive amours. He saw Gratienne; it was six months since they had met; she would have left him, very likely, by the time he returned. At this thought M. Hervart frowned. At the same time the pressure of his fingers relaxed.

Rose looked at him:

"What are you thinking about?"

"Again!" said M. Hervart to himself. "Oh, that eternal feminine question! As if any one ever answered it! Here's my answer...."

Looking at the clouds, he pronounced:

"I think it's going to rain."

"Oh, no!" said Rose, "I don't think so. The wind is 'suet'...."

Conscious of having uttered a provincialism, she made haste to add:

"As the country people say."

"What does it mean?"

"South-east."

M. Hervart was little interested in dialectal forms; rather spitefully and with the true Parisian's fatuous vanity, he replied:

"What an ugly word! You ought to say South-east. You're a regular peasant woman."

"Laugh away," said Rose. "I don't mind, now. We're all country-people; my father comes from