John Andrews had caught sight of Genevieve on a bench at the end of the garden under an arbor of vines. Her hair flamed bright in a splotch of sun as she got to her feet. She held out both hands to him. “How good-looking you are like that,” she cried. He was conscious only of her hands in his hands and of her pale-brown eyes and of the bright sun-splotches and the green shadows fluttering all about them. “So you are out of prison,” she said, “and demobilized. How wonderful! Why didn't you write? I have been very uneasy about you. How did you find me here?” “Your mother said you were here.” “And how do you like it, my Poissac?” She made a wide gesture with her hand. They stood silent a moment, side by side, looking about them. In front of the arbor was a parterre of rounded box-bushes edging beds where disorderly roses hung in clusters of pink and purple and apricot-color. And beyond it a brilliant emerald lawn full of daisies sloped down to an old grey house with, at one end, a squat round tower that had an extinguisher-shaped roof. Beyond the house were tall, lush-green poplars, through which glittered patches of silver-grey river and of yellow sand banks. From somewhere came a drowsy scent of mown grass. “How brown you are!” she said again. “I thought I had lost you.... You might kiss me, Jean.” The muscles of his arms tightened about her shoulders. Her hair flamed in his eyes. The wind that rustled through broad grape-leaves made a flutter of dancing light and shadow about them. “How hot you are with the sun!” she said. “I love the smell of the sweat of your body. You must have run very hard, coming here.” “Do you remember one night in the spring we walked home from Pelleas and Melisande? How I should have liked to have kissed you then, like this!” Andrews's voice was strange, hoarse, as if he spoke with difficulty. “There is the chateau tres froid et tres profond,” she said with a little laugh. “And your hair. 'Je les tiens dans les doits, je les tiens dans la bouche.... Toute ta chevelure, toute ta chevelure, Melisande, est tombee de la tour.... D'you remember?” “How wonderful you are.” They sat side by side on the stone bench without touching each other. “It's silly,” burst out Andrews excitedly. “We should have faith in our own selves. We can't live a little rag of romance without dragging in literature. We are drugged with literature so that we can never live at all, of ourselves.” “Jean, how did you come down here? Have you been demobilized long?”' “I walked almost all the way from Paris. You see, I am very dirty.” “How wonderful! But I'll be quiet. You must tell me everything from the moment you left me in Chartres.”