There followed a series of pointless anecdotes on Mme. Des Boys' habitual absence of mind. M. Hervart very nearly forgot to laugh: he was thinking of what Rose had just said. "Rose," said M. Des Boys, "ask Hervart if we weren't believers when we went around the Louvre. We were in a fever of enthusiasm. Hervart is my pupil; I formed his taste for beauty. Unluckily I left Paris and he has turned out badly. I remain faithful, in spite of everything." "But" said M. Hervart, "faithfulness only begins at the moment of discovering one's real vocation." Rose seemed to have given these words a meaning which M. Hervart had not consciously intended they should have. Two eyes, full of an infinite tenderness, rested on his like a caress. "It's as though I had made a declaration," he thought. "I must be mad. But how can one avoid phrases which people go and take as premeditated allusions?" However, he found the game amusing. It was possible in this way to speak in public and to give utterance to one's real feelings under cover of the commonplaces of conversation. Rose had given him the example; he had followed her without thinking, but this docility was a serious symptom. "I am lost. Here I am in process of falling in love." But like those drunkards who, feeling the moment of intoxication at hand, desire to control themselves, but must still obey their cravings because they have been so far weakened by the very sensation that now awakens them to a consciousness of their state, M. Hervart, while deciding that he ought to struggle, yielded. He drank off a whole glass of wine and said: "It is easy to make a mistake at one's first entry into life, and to go on making it long after. I am still very fond of art, but I was never meant to do more than pay her visits. We are friends, not a married couple. I have built my house on other foundations; it may be worth much or little, but I live in it faithfully. One can only stick to what one loves. To keep a treasure, you must have found it first." He had spoken with passion. "What eloquence!" said M. Des Boys. All of a sudden, Rose began to laugh, a laugh so happy, so full of gratitude, that M. Hervart could make no mistake about its meaning. "You're being laughed at, my poor friend," M. Des Boys went on. At this mistake, Rose's laughter redoubled. It became gay, childish, uncontrollable. "This is something," said Mme. Des Boys, "which will console you, I hope. But what a little demon my daughter is!" Out of pity for her mother, Rose made an effort to restrain herself. She succeeded after two or three renewed spasms and said, addressing herself to M. Hervart: "What do you think of the little demon? Are you afraid?" "More than you think." "So am I; I'm afraid of myself." "That's a sensible remark," said Mme. Des Boys. "Come now, behave." The home-made cake being approved of, she began giving the recipe. A meal rarely passed without Mme. Des Boys' revealing some culinary mystery.