"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 equisitely 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
