Frédéric did not finish his question; he checked himself, as if he regretted what he had said, and Constance, taken by surprise, lowered her eyes and said nothing. But she was beginning to become accustomed to the young man's eccentricities. Sometimes, when he sat by her for a long while without speaking, and seemed to be sad and distressed, she was tempted to ask him what was troubling him; but she dared not; so she held her peace, and sighed with him, although she did not quite know why. Melancholy is a disease readily transmitted between two young people of different sexes. Often the hours of silence are more dangerous than a conversation devoted to love making. Meanwhile, the intimacy between Frédéric and Constance was growing closer day by day: hardly a week had passed, and they had abandoned that reserve, that tone of gallantry and of formality, which is never the tone of friendship or of love. The count talked of returning to Paris, and Frédéric was surprised to find that he himself had not thought of it; the week had passed so quickly!--Upon reflection, he was almost angry with himself; he was remorseful because he had enjoyed himself. But remorse never comes until after the fact. "No," he said to himself, "I have not forgotten Sister Anne. I always see her when I look at Constance. I always think of her when I have Constance's lovely features before my eyes; I fancy that I am with her, when, sitting beside Constance, I quiver with delicious emotion." And he was probably still thinking of Sister Anne, when, on the day before he returned to Paris with his father, as he sat beside Constance in the garden, he took her hand and held it a long while in his. Constance did not withdraw her hand. She lowered her eyes, and seemed deeply moved. Frédéric said nothing, but he pressed her hand very tenderly; and the sweet-tempered girl, perhaps unconsciously, returned the pressure. Thereupon the young man's embarrassment revived; he dropped the hand he held, and hastily moved away from Constance, who raised her head, and, observing his agitation, smiled at him with that indefinable charm which captures and enslaves. "Are you really going to-morrow?" she said. "I must," faltered Frédéric, returning to her side; "I should have gone sooner, I fear---- Ah! yes, it is she, always she, whom I see! I would like to stay with you forever; I am so happy here! Oh! forgive me, mademoiselle; I don't know where I am." Constance was at a loss to understand this speech; but lovers never know what they say, or say it very badly; and she readily forgave him, because she interpreted it all according to her own heart, which told her that Frédéric loved her; and such sentiments always seem to be well expressed, for, in love, the eyes speak as loudly as the voice.