“They are so pretty, especially the youngest with his blond curls.” “Oh, but there are too many of them,” I repeated. She did not reply. I walked on, not caring to witness the demonstration with which the father would be greeted. That sort of affection did not appeal to me. I understood only the so-called higher type of love. As Raymonde did not follow, I turned around and saw her intently watching that scene from a life which she appreciated and craved but had been denied. All the tenderness and yearning of her womanhood were aroused; she could not keep back the tears. Instead of silently entering into her feeling, without useless words, I said impatiently: “What is the matter with you, Raymonde? Come, that is absurd.” In reality I knew the deep causes of her emotion. With miraculous intuition, had she not foreseen this, when she told her father that although she loved me I was not the husband for her? Although she was very ingenuous and ignorant of the degree of my unworthiness, yet she presaged our incompatibility, if not my injustice. She calmed herself with an heroic effort. “It is foolish of me,” she agreed. “They are so happy that I was deeply touched.” “And we?” I demanded mechanically. My question forced her to choose between a weak expression of self-pity or a bolder attempt to conceal her feelings by lying to me. “Yes, indeed, we too are happy,” she said in a voice bravely simulating the truth. At the gate we met M. Mairieux. Raymonde hastened to tell him where we had been. Somewhat astonished to see us together, he gazed at us attentively. The least favourable sign of happiness on his daughter’s face reflected itself on his own. He understood her expression so thoroughly that he was not to be deceived by appearances. From her open window Mme. Mairieux caught sight of us. “Ah! there are the lovers,” she cried. * * * I suggested to Raymonde that we make a little journey. The closer intimacy of travel helps sometimes to heal the distress of hearts that have been worn by concealed and daily irritations. Did I hope myself that she would refuse? My project was to return to Paris for a week or two, and then move on to some fashionable watering place. Although the season was already advanced (it was the beginning of July) some affairs were still taking place in the Bois de Boulogne and at Saint-Cloud. One noticed foreigners in attendance especially, and I liked their imaginative novelty and prestige. Whether she accepted the idea of living away from me in order the better to protect her threatened love from me, or whether her already weakened condition would no longer permit her to travel, I do not know; at any rate she refused to accompany me. “You are right to go,” she added. “The Sleeping Woods are lonely for your tastes. And as for me, I am so tired--you must let me rest a little. I will rejoin you shortly, as soon as I am able.”