"It's not only her shoulders," M. Lanfranc was saying, "they're not the only things about her that tempt one. She's forty-five, but her figure is still good and not too excessively run to flesh. As a whole she is certainly a bit ample, but at the Art School one could still make a very respectable Juno of her. I've seen worse on the model's throne...." "Time," said M. Hervart, "often shows angelical clemency. He pardons women who have been good lovers." "And still are," said Lanfranc. "There's no better recreation than love," said Leonor. "No sport more suited to keep one fit and supple." M. Hervart looked in surprise at this dim young man who had so unexpectedly made a joke. Anxious to shine in his turn, he replied: "No one has ever dared to put that in a manual of hygiene. What a charming chapter one could make of it, in the style of the First Empire: 'Love, the preserver of Beauty.'" "A pretty subject too for the Prix de Rome," said Lanfranc. "Seriously," broke in M. Des Boys, "I believe that the thing that so quickly shrivels up virtuous women in chastity." "Virtuous women!" said Lanfranc, "they're mean to reproduce the species. When they have had their children, and that must take place between twenty and thirty, their rôle is finished." "The only thing left for them to do," said M. Des Boys, "is to concoct philters to keep us young." The others looked at him interrogatively; he laughed. "You will see, or rather you'll taste, and you will understand. I wish you all as good a magician as Mme. Des Boys." "True," said M. Hervart, understanding him at last, "she has a real genius for cookery. Dinners of her planning are regular love-potions." "You'll realise that when you get back to Paris." "Yes, when I get back to Paris. I am taking a holiday here," said M. Hervart, pleased at this mark of confidence. He even added, so as to guard against possible suspicions: "A holiday from love is not without a certain melancholy." Rose had found it all very amusing, but when her father began speaking she stopped listening. Leonor, pleased at having made a witty remark, and afraid of not being able to think of another, had got up and was walking about the garden. Rose looked at him. The sight of this young animal interested her. And what curious words about love had issued from that mouth! So love was an exercise like tennis, or bicycling, or riding! What a revelation! And the most singular fancies took shape in her mind as she followed with her eyes the now distant figure of this ingenious and decisive young man. "How do people play the game of love," she wondered, "real love? Xavier teaches me nothing. He knows all about it though, more probably than this young Leonor, but he takes care not to tell me. He treats me like a little girl, while he makes fun of my innocence. Oh! it's gentle fun, because he loves me; but all the same he rather abuses his superior position. A sport, a sport...."