Léon stood there with his eyes on the ground, white as a sheet and trembling. He could not look at Rose at all. He felt as if her eyes were fire from Heaven. Rose spoke again. “Léon,” she said, “do you think I might have some tea?” “_Mon Dieu_--Rose--” he whispered under his breath. “_Mon Dieu_--what must you think--” “If I could have some roll and butter, too,” she went on, ignoring his murmur, “it would be very nice. I am rather hungry.” Léon turned and without speaking passed quickly into the house. Rose sat down opposite Madame and put the Baedeker on the table. Madame Gérard lifted her heavy eyelids and looked at Rose. She did not know what was coming, but she meant whatever came--scorn, anger or contempt--to take it. She was not sure what Rose wanted--she waited to be sure. Rose met her eyes with a grave and infinitely kindly look. “I am so sorry,” she said slowly in her hesitating French. “We meant to help you, but I’m afraid we didn’t.” Madame drew a quick breath, she had not expected this. It had not occurred to her that Rose would be sorry; that hard, stubborn substance that was in her breast melted once and for all towards Rose. The tears filled her eyes and fell slowly into her lap. “My dear,” she said, “no one could help me, and I have not even--helped myself.” “I was stupid,” Rose went on gently, “and I didn’t understand; but I do understand now. What I wanted to say before Léon comes back was, that I _know_ he meant not to make things worse. You _will_ forgive him, won’t you, because it was my fault really. If I had understood, you see, I should have known he couldn’t help you--not in that way--and I think I could have stopped him.” Madame Gérard nodded. “I have nothing to forgive your husband,” she said, choosing her words carefully. “He has done me no great wrong; always I knew where his heart was--it is still there, Madame--it is in your hands. I--” said Madame Gérard, looking away from Rose’s pitying, tender eyes--“have what I deserve. I have nothing.” The waiter came with the tea. Léon returned at the same time. He could not keep away, and yet it seemed to him as if there had never been less of him anywhere--his self-respect, his manhood had left him. Rose turned to him, and with a little gesture of perfect tenderness and trust she slipped her hand over his. It was as if she gave him back his soul. He drew himself up--strength passed into him. She had come back, she was his--somehow or other she was there to save him, and at least he could be generous--he could let himself be saved. He no longer cared that he must be a poor figure in her sight, and he forgot that there was any other sight but hers. She withdrew her hand again and went on very slowly, still in French, including him in the conversation with a little wave of the hand. “I have just,” she said to Madame Gérard, “been talking to Monsieur Gérard. He thinks I have improved very much in my French.”