It was her own despair, which nobody must know, which she must crush in silence and mystery, that made her give these cruel answers. Marcel, his sensitive feelings hurt, lengthened his steps as he climbed the hill and drew himself up as straight as a young oak-tree. But Paule at last, choking down all thought of self, hastened to catch up with him and took his hand in hers. She spoke in a voice quivering with emotion. “Listen, Marcel, I spoke hastily just now. I was in bad humor. Forgive me, I was wrong. Yes, I know that I was wrong. I saw to-day that she liked you. And her mother lavishes favors and kindnesses upon you.” Marcel listened to her, but his face was still melancholy. Paule went on. “You see, since father died there have been so many changes that my character has become embittered, no doubt. I cannot bear people who belittle everything we admire and make fun of all our enthusiasms. You saw that Isabelle Orlandi? But if Alice became your wife, how quickly she would change! She is so good, so sweet and gentle. And then she is so lovely.” “Yes,” he agreed sadly. “She is lovely.” It grew darker in the woods. The slim trunks of the birches and beeches mingled with the blackness of their foliage. But beyond the trees the brother and sister emerged again into the lingering summer twilight which refused to give place to night. As they came in sight of Le Maupas, Marcel stopped short. “No, you are not wrong. But speak to Alice. Explain to her my past, my future, all that is my pride--my only fortune. I would carry her off to Algiers, which is an enchanted town.” She understood and, looking tenderly at her brother, said: “Ah, if you love her, that’s different. I will do as you wish.” “Speak to her to-morrow,” he insisted. “We are going to breakfast at La Chênaie with Mademoiselle Orlandi’s fiancé.” “To-morrow? So soon?” was all she said. The invitation had not been given to her personally. But she gave no thought to this discourtesy, and added: “Wouldn’t it be better to speak to her parents?” “No,” he answered decidedly, “I don’t want our mother to run the risk of taking a useless step.” And as they passed through the gate she murmured: “I want you to be happy!” He smiled, but not at all confidently. “Don’t say anything to Mother yet. She doesn’t like that set. Neither do I.” Still he had to admit his weakness at the end. “But I do love _her_!” he concluded. CHAPTER V ALICE’S SECRET A plebeian husband and a woman of the aristocracy have not yet come to be regarded in French provincial life as making a good match. They are called “half bloods,” and they cannot make any pretensions to race. They are the object of ridicule when the husband allows the wife to dwell incessantly on her origin, in order to conceal the humbleness of his own, and even to have her maiden name added on her visiting cards.