"Women are complex; not more so, of course, than men, but in a different way which men can't understand. They don't understand themselves, and what's more, they don't care about understanding. They feel, and that suffices to steer them very satisfactorily through life, as well as to solve problems which leave men utterly helpless. One must act towards them as they do themselves. It's only through the feelings that one can get into contact with them. There is but one way of understanding women, and that is to love them.... Why shouldn't I say that aloud? It would amuse her, and perhaps she might find something pretty to say in reply."
But, without being exactly shy, M. Hervart was nervous about hearing the sound of his own voice. That was why he generally gave vent only to the curtest phrases. Rose had taken his hand once more. This mute language seemed to appeal to her, and M. Hervart was content to put up with it, though he found this exchange of manual confidences a little childish.
"But nothing," he went on to himself, "nothing is childish in love...."
