Louvre stores. He would take her as far as the arcades. She would come and pick him up for luncheon. On other days, she would come into his office at four o'clock and they would go and eat cakes and drink a glass of iced water; and then they would walk slowly back by the Pont Neuf and the Quays; on the way they would buy some queer old book and look at the play of the sunlight on the water and in the trees. Sometimes they would take the steamer or the train and go to some wood, not so wild as the Robinvast wood, but pleasant enough, where Rose could breathe an air almost as pure as the air of her native place....

There was not much imagination in this dream of M. Hervart's, for he had often realised it in the past. But the introduction of Rose made of it something quite new, a pleasure hitherto unfelt.

"By the end of my stay I shall be madly in love with her and very unhappy," he said to himself at last.

A little while later they met M. Des Boys, who was looking for them. While they were waiting at the station for the train, M. Hervart examined his duplicate postcards of the castles.

"Why shouldn't we go and look at them?" said Rose, glancing at her father.

He acquiesced:

"It will give me some ideas for the restoration of Robinvast, which I think of carrying out."

All that he meant to do was simply to set the place in order. He would have the mortar repointed without touching the ivy, and while preserving the wildness of the park and wood, he would have paths and alleys made.

"Art," he said sententiously, "admits only of a certain kind of disorder. Besides, I have to think of public opinion; the disorder of my garden will make people think that I am letting my daughter grow up in the same way...."

There was, in these words, a hint of marriage plans. Rose perceived it at once.

"I'm quite all right as I am," she said, "and so is Robinvast."

"Vain little creature!"

"Don't you agree with me?" said Rose, turning to M. Hervart with a laugh that palliated the boldness of her question.

"About yourself, most certainly."

"Oh, there's nothing more to be done with me. The harm's done already; I'm a savage. I'm thinking of the wildness of Robinvast; I like it and it suits my wildness."

"All the same," said M. Hervart, whose hands were covered with scratches, "there are a lot of brambles in the wood. I've never seen such fine ones, shoots like tropical creepers, like huge snakes...."

"I never scratch myself," said Rose.

But it was not without a feeling of satisfaction that she looked at M. Hervart's hands, which were scarred with picking blackberries for her. She whispered to him:

"I'm as cruel as the brambles."

"Defend yourself as well as they do," M. Hervart replied.

It had been only a chance word. No doubt, M. Des Boys thought of marrying his daughter, but the project was still distant. No suitor threatened. M. Hervart was pleased with this state of affairs; for, having fallen in love at ten in the morning, he was thinking now, at seven, of marrying this nervous and sentimental child who had offered the corner of her mouth to his clumsy kiss.

The evenings at Robinvast were regularly spent in playing cards. Trained from her earliest youth to participate in this occupation, Rose played whist with conviction. She managed the whole game, scolded her mother, argued about points with her father and kept M. Hervart fascinated under the gaze of her gentle eyes.

As soon as he sat down at the card table, he was conscious of this fascination, which, up till then, had worked on him without his knowledge. He remembered now that each time a chance had brought him face to face with Rose, he had felt himself intoxicated by a great pleasure. It was a kind of possession; spectators feel the same at the theatre, when they see the actress of their dreams. He reflected too that his own pleasure, almost unconscious though it had been, must have expressed itself by fervent looks....

"Her heart responded little by little to the mysterious passion of my eyes.... I have nice eyes too, I know; they are my best feature.... My pleasure is easily explained; full face, Rose is quite divine, though her profile is rather hard. Her nose, which is a little long, looks all right from the front; her face is a perfect oval; her smile seems to be the natural movement of her rather wide mouth, and her eyes come out in the lamplight from their deep setting, like flowers.... I have often stood in the same ecstasy before my lovely Titian Venus; it's true that she displays other beauties as well, but her face and her eyes are above all exquisite...."

"Don't make signs at one another!"

This observation, which had followed a too obvious exchange of smiles, amused Rose enormously; for she had been thinking very little of the game at the moment. She bowed her head innocently under the paternal rebuke.

They played extremely badly and lost a great number of points.

At the change of partners they were separated; but separation united them the better, for their knees soon came together under the table. The game, under these conditions, became delicious. Rose did her best to beat her lover and at the same time, delighting in the sense of contrast, caressed him under the table. Life seemed to her very delightful.

She was a little feverish and it was late before she went to sleep, to dream of this wonderful day when she had so joyously reached the summit of her desires. She was loved; that was happiness. She did not for a moment think of wondering whether she were herself in love. She had no doubts on the state of her heart.

M. Hervart's reflections were somewhat different. They also were extremely confused. Women live entirely in the present; men much more in the future—a sign, it may be, that there nature is not so well organised. M. Hervart was making plans. He went to sleep in the midst of his scheming, exhausted by his to make so much as one plan that should be tenable.

CHAPTER IV

When he came down fairly early next morning, he found M. Des Boys, who was usually invisible till lunch time, walking in the garden with his daughter. He was gesticulating, largely. M. Hervart was alarmed.

But they were not talking of him. M. Des Boys was planning a long winding alley and was showing Rose how it would run. After consulting M. Hervart, who was all eagerness in agreeing, he decided that they should start their tour of the castles that very day.

At the same time he sent for workmen to come the next day and wrote to Lanfranc, the architect of Martinvast, a friend of whom he had lost sight for a good many years. Lanfranc lived at St. Lô, where he acted as clerk of the works to the local authorities. M. Hervart was also acquainted with him.

Meanwhile, M. Des Boys forgot his painting and stayed in the garden nearly the whole morning. Rose was annoyed. She had counted on repeating their yesterday's walk among the hollies and brambles, among the foxgloves and through the bracken. She dreamed of how she would take this walk every day of her life, believing that she would find it eternally the same, as moving and as novel.

M. Hervart, though he was grateful for this diversion, could not help feeling certain regrets. He missed Rose's hand within his own.

For a moment, as they were walking along the terrace, they found themselves alone, at the very spot where the crisis had begun.

Quickly, they took one another's hands and Rose offered her cheek. M. Hervart made no attempt, on this occasion, to obtain a better kiss. It was not the occasion. Perhaps he did not even think of it. Rose was disappointed. M. Hervart noticed it and lifted the girl's hands to his lips. He loved this caress, having a special cult for hands. He gave utterance to his secret thought, saying:

"How is it that I never yet kissed your hands?"

Pleased, without being moved, Rose confined herself to smiling. Then, suddenly, as an idea