They moved away; soon they were out of the wood and had entered the hardly less unkempt garden. It was sunny there, and they crossed it quickly. She walked ahead. M. Hervart picked a rose as he went along and presented it to her. Rose took it and picked another, which she gave to M. Hervart, saying: "This one's me." M. Hervart had to begin pondering again. He was feeling happy, but understood less and less. "She behaves as though she were in love with me.... She also behaves as though she weren't. At one moment one would think that I was everything to her. A little later she treats me like a mere friend of the family..... And it's she who leads me on.... I have never seen that with flirts.... Where can she have learnt it? Women are like the noblemen in Molière's time: they know everything without having been taught anything at all." M. Hervart weighed down in mind, but light of heart, went up to his room, so as to be able to meditate more at ease. First of all he smarted himself up with some care. He plucked from his beard a hair, which, if not quite silver, was certainly very pale gold. He scented his waistcoat and slipped on his finger an elaborately chased ring. "It may come in useful when conversation begins to flag." He was about to begin his meditations, when somebody knocked at the door. Luncheon was ready. M. Des Boys, despite the disturbance of his plans seemed pleased. A drive, he declared would do him good. He needed an outing; besides he had a right to one. "I have just finished the ninth panel of my of my life of Sainte Clotilde. It is her entry too the convent of Saint Martin at Tours." M. Hervart manifested an interest in this composition, which he had admired the previous evening before it had been given the final touches. He hoped to see it soon in its proper frame, with the other panels in Robinvast church. "There are going to be twelve in all," said M. Des Boys. "People will come and see them as they do the Life of St. Bruno that used to be at the Chartreux and is now in the Louvre." "So I hope." "But they won't come quite so much." "Yes, Robinvast is rather far. But then who goes to the Louvre? A few artists, a few aimless foreign sightseers. Nobody in France takes an interest in art." "Nobody in the world does," said M. Hervart, "except those who live by it." "What about those who die of it?" asked Rose. Mme. Des Boys looked at her daughter with some surprise: "I have never heard that painting was a dangerous industry." "When one believes in it, it is," said M. Hervart. "What, not dangerous?" said M. Des Boys "What about white lead?" "One must believe," said Rose, looking at M. Hervart. "This just shows," M. Des Boys went on, "what the public's point of view in this matter is. My wife's marvellously absurd remark exactly represents their feelings."