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? It's 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?"
