She did not try to disengage her hands; she smiled and looked at him. Her clear eyes were fixed upon him and yet did not see him because they had already gone beyond him. She was looking into herself. She thought, "This is not even to be discussed? Everything should be discussed! Why is it impossible? He doesn't displease me. He is a handsome fellow, attractive, good enough, intelligent, agreeable. How easy life would be! . . . But I could not live his life with him. He is pleasant, and everything pleases him. But he respects nothing, men, women, love or Annette. . . ." (It was she who was speaking, for she saw herself from outside.) "He is certainly not ungenerous so far as delicate attentions and social respect are concerned. He gives them to me in good measure. Perhaps he even treats me with special favor. . . . But what a complete sceptic! Is there anything he takes seriously? He delights in his absolute lack of faith in human nature. He discounts its weaknesses with a complacent and sympathetic curiosity. I think he would be disappointed if the day came when he was obliged to respect it. A good soul! Yes, life would be easy with him--so easy that I should no longer have any reason to live." Beyond that she no longer put her thought into words. But the thought pursued her, and her mind was made up. Franck had let her hands drop. He felt that his cause was lost. He got up and walked to the window, and with his back to the window-pane he philosophically lighted a cigarette. He was behind Annette; he saw her motionless, her arms stretched over the table, as if he were still in front of her. Her beautiful blond neck and her round shoulders. . . . Lost! . . . For whom, for what, was she keeping herself? Some new Brissot-foolishness? No, he knew that Annette's heart was free. Well, then? She was not cold. She needed to love and be loved!