The sun is shining, the sky is blue, white clouds are unfolding--like gay pennants they seem to him. He is glad the sun is shining--all is omen, all is oracle, the clouds are the love pennants of the sky. What a chatter of thoughts and images are going on in his brain, perchance in hers, too! Moreover, there is her poem in his pocket--he must read it to her, and that she may hear it they sit upon the grass. Twenty years ago there was some rough grass facing the villas, and some trees and bushes, with here and there a bench for lovers to sit upon--for all kinds of people to sit upon, but lovers think that this world is made only for lovers. Only love is of serious account, and the object of all music and poetry, of pictures and sculpture, is to incite love, to praise love, to make love seem the only serious occupation. Vincennes, its trees and its white clouds lifting themselves in the blue sky, were regarded that day by these lovers as a very suitable setting for their gallantries. The dear little woman sits--the dreamer can see her on the warm grass--hidden as well as she can hide herself behind some bushes, the black crêpe dress hiding her feet or pretending to hide them. White stockings were the fashion; she wears white stockings, and how pretty and charming they look in the little black shoes! The younger generation now only knows black stockings; the charms of white are only known to the middle-aged. But the young man must read her his poem. He wants her to hear it because the poem pleases him, and because he feels that his poem will aid him to her affections. And when she asks him if he has thought of her during the night, he has to answer that her violet-scented handkerchief awoke him many times, that the wakings were delicious. What time did he go to bed? Very late; he had sat up writing a poem to her telling of the beauty of her blond hair. "Lady, unwreath thy hair, That is so long and fair. May flowers are not more sweet Than the shower of loosened hair That will fall around my feet. Lady, unwreath thy hair, That is so long and fair. "The golden curls they paint, Round the forehead of a saint, Ne'er glittered half so bright As thy enchanted hair, Full of shadow, full of light. Lady, unwreath thy hair, That is so long and fair. "Lady, unwreath thy hair, That is so long and fair, And weave a web of gold Of thy enchanted hair, Till all be in its hold. Lady, unwreath thy hair, That is so long and fair." "Do let me see your poem.... It is charming. But what do you mean by 'enchanted hair'? Is it that my hair has enchanted you? 'And weave a web of gold.'... 'Unwreath'--do you mean unloose my hair?" "Dames, tressez vos cheveux blonds Qui sont si lourds et si longs. "How well it goes with French!" "I don't understand French, but I like your poem in English. Do you know, I like it very much!"