morning. Rose was annoyed. She had counted on repeating their yesterday's walk among the hollies and brambles, among the fox-gloves 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 have never yet kissed your hands?"
Pleased, without being moved, Rose confined herself to smiling. Then, suddenly, as
