While reflecting thus, he had answered M. Hervart, "I quite agree with you. People tend too much to-day to confound the curious, rare or antique with the beautiful. The æsthetic sense has been replaced by a feeling of respect." "The process was perhaps inevitable," said M. Hervart. "In any case it suits a democracy. People have no time to learn to admire, but one can very quickly learn to respect. The intelligence is docile, but taste is recalcitrant." "But aren't there such things," Rose asked, "as spontaneous admirations?" "Yes," said Leonor, "there's love." "Then is admiration the same as love?" "If they don't yet love, people come very near loving when they admire." "And is love admiration?" "Not always." "Love," said M. Hervart, "is compatible with almost all other feelings, even with hatred." "Yes," replied Leonor, "that has the appearance of being true, for there are many kinds of love. The love that struggles with hatred can only be a love inspired by interest or sensuality." "One never knows. I hold that love, just as it is capable of taking any shape or form, can devour all other feelings and install itself in their place. It comes and it goes, without one's ever being able to understand the mechanism of its movements. It lasts two hours or a whole life.... "You are mixing up the different species," said Leonor. "You must, if we are to understand one another, allow words to keep their traditional sense with all its shades of meaning. Love is at the base of all emotions either as a negative or positive principle; one can say that, and when one has said it one is no forwarder. Do you think there's no point in the way verbal usage employs the words 'passion, caprice, inclination, taste, curiosity' and other words of the kind? It would surely be better to create new shades, rather than set one's wits to work to dissolve all the colours and shades of sensation and emotion into a single hue." Like a village musician plunged into the midst of a discussion on counterpoint and orchestration, Rose listened, a little disquieted, a little irritated, but at the same time fascinated. They were speaking of something that filled her heart and set her nerves tingling; she did not understand, she felt. She would have liked to understand. "Xavier will explain it all to me. How silly I look in the middle of the conversations where I can't put in a word." She pretended to desire a rose out of reach of her hand. M. Hervart darted forward, reached the flower and set to work to strip the branch of its thorns and its superfluous wood and leaves. "That was not the one I wanted," said Rose. M. Hervart began again and the girl looked on, happy at having been able to interrupt a serious conversation by a mere whim. Leonor examined them with a certain irony. Rose noticed his look, felt herself blushing and slipped away. M. Hervart and Leonor continued their stroll and their chat; but they talked no more about love. CHAPTER IX