"So you think a man can care too much for a woman?" he asked, and stopped for a moment with raised brush to watch her answer. She shrugged her shoulders slightly, yet enough to make the folds of her wrapper strain upward for a fleeting moment. "As to that I think women are worth it. But it is foolish to care everything for one person." "You could care for others, then--as well as M. Colombini?" asked Archie with a sudden stir at his pulses. "I? One can care a little--here and there. But commit a folly for a man, that is a thing I would never do. And I am very fond of Auguste. If I did not think we should be happy and faithful I should not marry him. I look round on all the married people I know, and see nothing but betrayal everywhere. Here a husband plays his wife false, there she in her turn cheats him. Bah!--it is not good, that!" "How right you are!" said Archie virtuously. "But you do not then think it necessary to care as much for Auguste as he cares for you?" "_Damme_, no! How should I? He pleases me, and he is good--I can respect him. And I like him to kiss me . . ." the most charming look of self-consciousness mingled with reminiscence flitted over her face--"but for him--he is mad when he kisses me. Women do not care like that. It is a folly. And it is always happier, Monsieur, when it is the husband who cares the most. That is how men are made." Oh, yes, thought Archie, she was a woman after all, this _vierge farouche_, and more unashamedly woman, franker in her admissions of knowledge--for she admitted in her expressive face and gestures more than she actually said--than any woman of his world. He worked in silence for a while then told her to rest. She flung herself on the turf with an abandonment of limb and muscle usually only seen in young animals, and he came and lay a little below her and lit a cigarette. Désirée lay serenely, her face upturned, and he studied her thoughtfully. "Surely very few of your countrywomen are as blonde as you?" he asked her. "Your eyes are blue, and your brows and lashes a faint brown and your hair is----" He paused, at a loss how to describe her hair. It was not golden, rather that strong brass-colour that, had he seen it on a sophisticated townswoman he would have dubbed "peroxide." It was oddly metallic hair, not only in its colour, but in the carven ripples of it where she wore it pulled across her low brow and massed in heavy braids round her head. That way of wearing her hair right down to her brows, except for a narrow white triangle of forehead showing, boy-like, at one side, gave her an oddly animal look--using the word in its best sense. A look as of some low-browed, heavy-tressed faun, fearless and unashamed--it was only in her eyes that mystery lay. "My hair?" she exclaimed, showing her big white teeth in a laugh as frank as a boy's; "but that, you know, is not natural! It was an accident!" "An accident! How on earth----?"