"That? Oh, those are my secrets," and, picking up all the things she had thrown on the table, she put them quickly back in her pocket with the little book. The next minute, with a burst of laughter and diving once more into her pockets, she pulled the book out again, opened the flap, and scattered all the little papers on the table in front of Denoisel, and without opening them proceeded to explain what they were. "There, this is a prescription that was given for papa when he was ill. That's a song he composed for me two years ago for my birthday----" "There, that's enough! Pack up your relics; put all that out of sight," said M. Mauperin, sweeping all the little papers from him just as the door opened and M. Dardouillet entered. "Oh, you've mixed them all up for me!" exclaimed Renee, looking annoyed as she put them back in her pocket-book. XXIX A month later, in the little studio, Renee said to Denoisel: "Am I really romantic--do you think I am?" "Romantic--romantic? In the first place, what do you mean by romantic?" "Oh, you know what I mean; having ideas that are not like every one else's, and fancying a lot of things that can never happen. For instance, a girl is romantic when it would be a great trouble to her to marry, as girls do marry, a man with nothing extraordinary about him, who is introduced to her by papa and mamma, and who has not even so much as saved her life by stopping a horse that has taken fright, or by dragging her out of the water. You don't imagine I'm one of that sort, I hope?" "No; at least I don't know at all. I'd wager that you yourself don't know, either." "Nonsense. It may be, in the first place, because I have no imagination; but it has always seemed to me so odd to have an ideal--to dream about some imaginary man. It's just the same with the heroes in novels; they've never turned my head. I always think they are too well-bred, too handsome, too rotten, with all their accomplishments. I get so sick of them in the end. But it isn't that. Tell me now, suppose they wanted to make you live your whole life long with a creature--a creature who----" "A creature--what sort of a creature?" "Let me finish what I am saying. A man, then, who did not answer at all to certain delicate little requirements of your nature, who did not strike you as being poetical--there, that's what I mean--not a scrap poetical, but who on the other hand made up for what was wanting in him, in other ways, by such kindness--well, such kindness as one never meets with----" "As much kindness as all that? Oh, I should not hesitate; I should take the kindness blindfold. Dear me, yes, indeed I should. It's so rare." "You think kindness worth a great deal then?" "I do, Renee. I value it as one values what one has lost." "You? Why, you are always very kind."