Finally she decided to lay her troubles before Sylvie. Never had she said a word to her of her love for Roger. Yet she confided everything to her: of all the other young men she had often spoken to her. . . . Yes, but she didn't love the other young men! And Roger's name had been kept out of their conversation. Sylvie exclaimed, called her "Sneak!" and laughed uproariously when Annette tried to explain her indecision, her scruples and her torments. "Well now," she demanded, "is this bird of yours handsome?" "Yes," replied Annette. "He loves you?" "Yes." "And you love him?" "I love him." "Well then, what's stopping you?" "Oh! it is so difficult! How can I tell you? . . . I love him. . . . I love him tremendously. . . . He is so wonderful!" (She began to describe him complaisantly, under Sylvie's mocking eyes. Then she broke off. . . .) "I love him very much . . . very much. . . . And then, too, I don't love him. . . . There are things about him . . . I could never live with . . . I never could. . . . And then, he loves me too much. He would like to eat me. . . ." (Sylvie burst out laughing.) ". . . It's true, eat me entirely, devour my whole life, all my own thoughts, the very air I breathe. . . . Oh! he's an excellent eater, my Roger! It's a pleasure to see him at the table. . . . He has a good appetite. . . . But I, I don't want to be eaten." She too laughed heartily; and Sylvie, who was sitting in her lap, laughed against her neck. Annette went on: "It's frightful to feel yourself being devoured like that, alive, to have nothing of your own any more, not to be able to keep anything any longer. . . . And he doesn't suspect it. . . . He loves me madly, and I have an idea, you see, that he doesn't even try to understand me, that he doesn't even think about it. He comes, he takes, he carries me off. . . ." "Well, that's terribly nice!" observed Sylvie. "You are always thinking about silly things!" said Annette, clasping her in her arms. "And what would you like to have me think about?" "About marriage. That's a serious thing." "Serious! oh! well, not so serious!" "What, it isn't serious to give all of yourself, without a single reservation?" "And who talked about doing that? You'd have to be mad!" "But he wants to have everything!" Sylvie squirmed with laughter like a little fish. "Oh! you goose! you stupid! . . . Ninny!" (It seemed to her so simple to say what one wished, to give what one wished, and to keep back all the rest without saying anything about it! She was affectionately ironical towards men and their demands. They are not so sharp! . . .) "But I'm not, I'm not all those things," Annette protested. "Oh! So far as that goes!" exclaimed Sylvie, "you take everything so seriously." Annette admitted the fact, contritely. "It's too bad all the same! . . . I wish I were like you! . . . You have all the luck!" she went on. "Let's exchange! Hand over yours!" said Sylvie.