What had seemed in others an empty compliment became a delicate attention in the case of the woman he was beginning to love--unknown to himself. The discovery of an additional motive for distinguishing her from all the women he had met on the previous evening made him feel less able to resist the desire to be near her. He hailed a cab almost mechanically, and on reaching home commenced to dress. His sister was out, and Françoise was busy in the kitchen. Though he had still not the courage to say to himself outright, 'I am going to the Rue Murillo,' he paid as much attention to the minute details of his toilet as amorous youths--at such times a deal more coquettish than women--are wont to do. It was now no longer upon his timidity that he relied for help to battle against the ever-increasing desire within him. Every object in the room recalled memories of Rosalie. With the innate honesty of the young, he for a long time tried to impress upon himself the duty he owed the poor girl. 'What would I think of her if I heard that she was accepting the attentions of a man whom she liked as much as I like Madame Moraines? But then,' rejoined the tempting voice, 'you are an artist, and require fresh sensations and experience of the world. And who says that you are going to call on Madame Moraines only to make love to her?' He was just in the act of applying his handkerchief to a bottle of 'white rose' that stood on his dressing-table. The penetrating perfume sent the warm blood coursing through his veins in that irresistible tide of voluptuous desire that marks the nascent passions of ardent but continent natures such as his. Since his secret engagement to Rosalie his delicate scruples had led him to return to a life of absolute purity. But the barriers of reserve gave way before this subtle perfume, which awakened memories of all that was least ideal in her rival--the golden ringlets in her neck, her ruby lips and pearly teeth, her snowy rounded shoulders and the long bare arms with their tapering wrists. And this, too, just as he was attempting to attribute his admiration for her to intellectual motives. Of what avail were ideas of loyalty towards Rosalie in the face of such visions? It was five o'clock. René left the house, jumped into another cab, and told the man to drive to the Rue Murillo. He kept his eyes closed the whole of the way, so intensely painful was the sensation of suspense. Mingled with this was shame for his own weakness, apprehension of what was in store for him, deep joy at the thought that he was about to see that glorious face once more, and, permeating all, a spice of that mad hope, intoxicating on account of its very vagueness, that urges the young along fresh paths simply for the sake of their novelty. The feeling of permanence, so indispensable to a man of experience, who knows how short life really is, is hateful to the very young. At twenty-five they are by nature changeable, and consequently fickle.