And he recalled how tenderly she had leaned on his arm. And in passing under a shady tree he had felt her ear brushing his cheek, and he had moved his head abruptly, lest she should suppose he was too familiar. When he had said to her: “Is it not time to return?” she darted a singular look at him. “Certainly,” she said, “certainly,” regarding him at the same time in a curious manner. He had not thought of it at the time, but now the whole thing appeared to him quite plain. “Just as you like, my friend. If you are tired let us go back.” And he had answered: “I am not fatigued; but Sandres may be awake now.” And she had said: “If you are afraid of my husband's being awake, that is another thing. Let us return.” On their way back she remained silent, and leaned no longer on his arm. Why? At that time it had never occurred to him, to ask himself “why.” Now he seemed to apprehend something that he had not then understood. Could it? M. Saval felt himself blush, and he got up at a bound, as if he were thirty years younger and had heard Madame Sandres say, “I love you.” Was it possible? That idea which had just entered his mind tortured him. Was it possible that he had not seen, had not guessed? Oh! if that were true, if he had let this opportunity of happiness pass without taking advantage of it! He said to himself: “I must know. I cannot remain in this state of doubt. I must know!” He thought: “I am sixty-two years of age, she is fifty-eight; I may ask her that now without giving offense.” He started out. The Sandres' house was situated on the other side of the street, almost directly opposite his own. He went across and knocked at the door, and a little servant opened it. “You here at this hour, Saval! Has some accident happened to you?” “No, my girl,” he replied; “but go and tell your mistress that I want to speak to her at once.” “The fact is madame is preserving pears for the winter, and she is in the preserving room. She is not dressed, you understand.” “Yes, but go and tell her that I wish to see her on a very important matter.” The little servant went away, and Saval began to walk, with long, nervous strides, up and down the drawing-room. He did not feel in the least embarrassed, however. Oh! he was merely going to ask her something, as he would have asked her about some cooking recipe. He was sixty-two years of age! The door opened and madame appeared. She was now a large woman, fat and round, with full cheeks and a sonorous laugh. She walked with her arms away from her sides and her sleeves tucked up, her bare arms all covered with fruit juice. She asked anxiously: “What is the matter with you, my friend? You are not ill, are you?” “No, my dear friend; but I wish to ask you one thing, which to me is of the first importance, something which is torturing my heart, and I want you to promise that you will answer me frankly.” She laughed, “I am always frank. Say on.”