With Annette, Madame Brissot at first adroitly invited only three or four intimate friends,--then two, then one, then none. And Annette found herself alone with the four Brissots. _En famille_, said Madame Brissot in a tone rich in unctuously maternal promises. Annette smelled the trap, but she did not steal away. She found too much pleasure in being with Roger. Her affection for him made her regard his family indulgently; she closed her eyes to what secretly irritated her in this circle. Acuteness of feminine instinct warned the Mesdames Brissot of this; strong as their self-love was, it never worked against their interests; by tacit accord, they knew how to efface themselves, how to speak less, sift their ideas, and arrange matters so that the lovers might frequently enjoy undisturbed times alone together. More and more enamoured and disturbed at Annette's reserve, which would have struck him less forcibly had not his mother and his sister called it to his attention, Roger had never been more attracted than now when his self-confidence was threatened. He delivered no more speeches; his eloquence had flagged. For the first time in his life, he tried to read another's soul. As he sat beside Annette, his humble and ardent eyes devoured, implored the little enigma, striving to solve it. Annette enjoyed this disquiet, this timidity that was so new in him, this fearful waiting that watched over her every movement. She was shaken. There were moments when she nearly bent towards him, to utter decisive words. And yet she did not say them. At the last second, she instinctively drew back, without knowing why; brusquely she avoided the declaration that Roger was about to make, and her own avowals. She escaped. . . . And then the trap closed. From one of the neighboring salons, Madame and Mademoiselle Brissot would discreetly brood over the unfruitful interview. Occasionally they were visible, crossing the drawing-room, smiling and preoccupied. In passing they would throw out a friendly word, but they did not stop. And the two young people continued their long conversations. One evening when they were absentmindedly thumbing an album, which was an excuse for them to put their heads close together, while they were exchanging their thoughts in a low voice, there was a silence; and suddenly Annette perceived the danger. She wanted to get up, but Roger's arm was already around her waist, and the young man's passionate mouth was upon her half-parted lips. She tried to defend herself. But how could she, against herself! Her lips returned the kiss, even while she wanted to draw away. She disengaged herself, however, when she heard Madame Brissot shrilling in an excited voice, from the other end of the drawing-room: "Oh! my dear girl! . . ." And she was calling: "Adèle! . . . Monsieur Brissot! . . ."