But Monsieur Simpson would not let go of the two waists. Adeline and Suzanne threw themselves back in his arms laughing. The point was argued, the ladies grew angry, the hubbub was prolonged, and the dress-coats in the embrasures of the windows asked themselves how Saffré would extricate himself from this delicate dilemma to his glory. He, indeed, seemed perplexed for a moment, seeking by what refinement of gracefulness he might win the laughers over to his side. Then he smiled, he took Madame d'Espanet and Madame Haffner by the hand, whispered a question in their ears, received their replies, and afterwards addressing himself to Monsieur Simpson: "Do you pluck the verbena, or do you pluck the periwinkle?" he asked. Monsieur Simpson, looking rather foolish, said that he plucked the verbena, whereupon Monsieur de Saffré gave him the marchioness saying: "Here is the verbena." There was discreet applause. It was found very pretty. Monsieur de Saffré was a cotillon leader "who never remained embarrassed," such was the ladies' remark. In the meanwhile the orchestra had resumed the waltz air with all its instruments, and Monsieur Simpson, after making the round of the room, waltzing with Madame d'Espanet, reconducted her to her seat. Renée was able to pass. She had bit her lips till they bled at sight of all this foolishness. She considered these women and men stupid to throw scarfs and take the names of flowers. Her ears rung, a furious impatience lent her a brusque desire to throw herself forward, head first, and open a passage. She crossed the drawing-room with a rapid step, jostling the belated couples who were regaining their seats. She went straight to the conservatory. She had not seen either Louise or Maxime among the dancers, and she said to herself that they must be there, in some nook formed by the foliage, united by that partiality for drollery and impropriety which made them seek out little corners as soon as they found themselves anywhere together. But she fruitlessly explored the dimness of the conservatory. She only perceived, in the depths of an arbour, a tall young fellow who was devoutly kissing the hands of little Madame Daste and murmuring: "Madame de Lauwerens told me right: you are an angel."