Nannon, who represented the opposition to M. Deshoulieres, was nothing loath to enter upon the field. "There is no harm in the river," she said, with decision. "Monsieur would know that if he had lived in the town as long as I have. If mademoiselle prefers the band and a little distraction, she can always find it above there; but if she likes better to come and sit in this seclusion, there is nothing to prevent it. White mist does no one any hurt. It is the stirring up which brings the fever," added Nannon, with a spiteful allusion to some sanitary measures of M. Deshoulieres. "You are coming back now?" he said, addressing himself to Therese, without taking any notice of Nannon's speech. Long afterwards she wondered at the clearness with which she remembered every detail of that walk, the little rough, untidy path, the rose-bushes growing out of the grey wall, the dog that stood and barked, then the houses and the steep hot streets. At the time she scarcely noticed them, but afterwards they came back. M. Deshoulieres was grave and preoccupied; but once, when Nannon had lingered behind to speak to some friend, he turned round and said, with a sudden smile and a twinkle in his blue eyes,-- "So that is the companion you have chosen, mademoiselle?" Therese murmured something, feeling horribly guilty: she wondered whether he would guess that her sympathy with Nannon began in the market. "She is not a bad old woman," went on the unconscious Max. "She lets herself be eaten up by that sister of hers, and she does not always tell the truth; but she will be honest and faithful." "I am sure she is faithful," said Therese, forcing herself to say something, and thinking of Fabien. M. Deshoulieres looked up quickly. "Is faithfulness a favourite virtue of yours, mademoiselle?" "It seems to me that it is the anchor of life," answered the girl in a low voice. He looked at her again with a little wonder. There was something almost passionate in the tone with which she spoke those few words. His next question came out abruptly. "Does your present residence suit you? Are you sure that you would not prefer a change?" Therese thought of the convent, and turned sick. "I do not wish for any change," she said, hurriedly. "You are content to remain where you are?" It was a strange sort of contentment, Therese thought, with a quick flash of self-pity; but the other place of refuge that was open to her would be unbearable. She said yes to his question, and then despised herself for the falseness of her answer. "Every place must be a little sad to me, just now, monsieur," she went on, "for I belong to no one. But I am glad to stay at Mme. Roulleau's."