his eyes. He turned completely and laid his hands upon the girl's hands. They moved, took his and pressed them, gently. Then, without having had the time to think of what they were doing, they woke up a second later mouth against mouth. This kiss exhausted their emotion. With the same instinctive movement both drew back, but they went on looking at one another.
Decidedly, she was very pretty. She, for her part, found him admirable, thinking:
"I belong to him. I have given him my lips. I am his. What will he do? What shall I do? ...."
That was just what M. Hervart was wondering—what ought he to do?
"What caresses are possible, what won't she object to? I should like to kiss her lips again .... Her eyes? Her neck? Which of the Italian poets was it who said: 'Kiss the arms, the neck, the breasts of your beloved, they will not give you back your kisses. The lips alone.' But I shall have to say something. Of course, I ought to say: 'Je vous aime.' But I don't love her. If I did, I should have said: 'Je
