They walked back together and he explained to her just how much he hated the sea, the heat, the Hotel Bungalow, the cook, and Marie Aimee's footsteps. He explained how anxious he had been about her--how he had longed to see her face--how much her sunshade had depressed him--how her lace veil had been a personal enemy. She said that she adored the country.... He told her that only in big towns could you find peace or flowers. She said the Hotel Bungalow had "un caractere assez special...." He did not listen to her comments--they were mere breathing places. On the subject of the sea he was, he thought, almost witty, with a touch of real indignation. She said the sea was her passion.... He decided that she was an obstinate woman--entetee. How ridiculous to love the sea--especially for some one who pretended to like the country. The two were practically incompatible. Could she explain her point of view? The sea, she said, was such a wonderful escape.... He was thrilled. A thousand explanations of her presence at the Hotel Bungalow jostled one another in his mind. Of course he quite understood what she meant about the sea. It had a certain spaciousness and it did, so to speak, quarantine you from life. For instance, in a rowing boat, it was impossible to feel the importance of being a snob. That was not, she said, exactly what she meant.... Maurice was annoyed. He was accustomed to people who were proud to share his meanings. Madame would perhaps be able to explain.... It was not, Madame murmured, a question of being able to explain, but of being able to interrupt.... Maurice flushed and relapsed into sulky silence. He watched his companion trotting by his side, taking three little steps to each one of his. He took a childish pleasure in making his strides as wide as possible, upsetting the rhythm of her walk. The brim of her hat hid her eyes. He felt that his uncertainty as to their expression gave the matter an interest that it did not intrinsically possess. Even if she were smiling, what did it matter? Suddenly she turned to him. "Has Monsieur anything more to conceal from me?" she asked. Maurice capitulated. It was a delightful formula. He wished that he had thought of it himself. It was she, he said, who had been hiding things from him. Her eyes, for instance. All this time he had been wondering about the expression of her eyes. "And yet you deny the potency of the country," she sighed, "the miracle-working country, which compels a young man of twenty-seven to wonder about the expression of an old woman of forty-four." "Madame," he said, "I am very old. I have ceased to take myself seriously. You are very young, for you can force others to treat you with curiosity and respect." She reminded him that eight minutes ago he had taken himself seriously. "It was you who made me," he retorted, "you have given me back my youth."