She made a pretty picture, as she sat there, gentle and, at the same time, wild. Her features, while they still preserved a trace of childishness, were growing marked and definite. She was a woman. How red her mouth was, how voluptuous! M. Hervart caught himself reflecting that that mouth would give most excellent kisses. What a fruit to bite, firm-fleshed and succulent! Rose heaved a sigh, and it was as though a wave had lifted her white dress; all her young bosom had seemed to expand. M. Hervart had a vision of roseate whiteness, soft and living; he desired it as a child desires the peach he sees on the wall hidden under its long leaves. He took the pleasure in this desire that he had sometimes taken in standing before Titian's Portrait of a Young Lady. The obstacle was as insurmountable: Rose, so far as he was concerned, was an illusion. "But that makes no difference," he said to himself, "I have desired her, which isn't chaste of me. If I had been in love with her, I should not have had that kind of vision. Therefore I am not in love with her. Fortunately!" Rose was thinking of nothing. She was just letting herself be looked at. Having been examined, she smiled gently, a smile that was faintly tinged with shyness. Flying suddenly to the opposite extreme, she burst out laughing and, holding on with both hands to the knotted trunk, leaned backwards. Her hat fell off her hair came undone. She sat up again, looking wilder than ever. M. Hervart thought that she was going to run away, like Galatea; but there was no willow tree. "I don't care," she said as M. Hervart handed her the hat; "my hair will have to stay down. It's all right like that. Pins don't hold on my head." "Pins," said M. Hervart, "pins rarely do hold on women's heads." She smiled without answering and certainly without understanding. She was smiling a great deal this morning, M. Hervart thought. "But her smile is so sweet that I should never get tired of it. Come now, I'll tell her that...." "I love your smile. It's so sweet that I should never get tired of it." "As sweet as that? That's because it's so new. I don't smile much generally." It was enough to move any man to the depths of his being. M. Hervart murmured spontaneously: "I love you, Rose." Frankly, and without showing any surprise, she answered: "So do I, my dear." At the same time she shook her skirt on which a number of ants were crawling. "This sort doesn't bite," she said. "They're nice...." "Like you." (What a compliment! How insipid! What a fool I'm making of myself!) "There's one on your sleeve," said Rose. She brushed it off. "Now say thank you," and she presented her cheek, on which M. Hervart printed the most fraternal of kisses. "It's incomprehensible," he thought. "However, I don't think she's in love. If she were, she would run away. It is only after the decisive act that love becomes familiar...." "If we want to go to Cherbourg," said Rose, "we must have lunch early."