Léon’s eyes flickered under the yellow lamps. It was almost as if they were laughing at her. “Yes,” he said caressingly, “yes--that is always possible.” “You see,” Rose explained, “all along I have felt as if you knew me, and what I wanted, and how you could please me, so astonishingly well.” Léon smiled. He did not tell her that compared to other women--many other women--she was easy to please. “Of course,” Rose went on, “in a way I understand you. I told Mamma that! Better than if you were English, because we’ve talked so much, you see--but I’m not sure--not quite sure--that I know all the things you don’t like. “What I wanted to ask you to-night was--will you always tell me what you want and not mind if I’m stupid and don’t know things until you tell me? You need never tell me more than once--I shall always remember.” She had touched him now, touched him so much that he sprang to his feet and walked hastily to the window. She could not see his face. She waited patiently and a little anxiously for him to come back to her. He said, when he came back, and stood behind her chair: “You are adorable,” but he said it quite differently, he said it as if he really found her adorable. “It is true,” he said at last, very gently and tenderly. “There are things that we must teach each other, and to-night I will teach you one of them. You should not have sent for me here.” “Ah, but why, Léon?” she cried. “It was just the last night”--her voice faltered--some queer little trick of the brain forced into her memory the voice she had heard on the telephone. That woman, too, had said to somebody that it was the last night. “In the first place,” he said, still gently, but a little gravely, “you should not have seen me at all--on the evening before our marriage, it is the reason itself! You should have spent it with your mother and sisters. It surprised me--it surprised me very much--your sending for me.” She flushed crimson. “Do not think I blame you,” he said quickly. “But I am a Frenchman, and you must learn a little how we think.” Rose bowed her head. “And in the second place,” he said, “my very dear child--you must not constrain me to come to you--it is my delight--my joy to be with you--be very careful that you never make it my duty! I am your lover--to-morrow I shall be your husband. So--so you will remember, never try to constrain me to be with you--let me come, let me go, do not try to hold me, and do not seek to know where I have been.” “But,” she cried eagerly, “Léon--I didn’t mean to do anything like that! I--I was frightened. I wanted you! Just to see you! I never will again--I mean--I don’t think--do you?--I shall ever be frightened again. It wasn’t that I meant to--oh, what a horrible word--constrain you--only I thought you would be alone and wanting me, too!” “Mon Dieu!” he cried, with sudden exasperation. “Of course I want you!”