"What the devil was I thinking of," said Maurice to himself, "when I imagined this man loved Geneviève?"
"Then it is all settled," said Geneviève. "I address myself to you, Morand, thoughtful, absent man that you are,—remember it is on Thursday next; so do not on the Wednesday evening commence some chemical experiment that will occupy your time and attention for the next twenty-four hours, as very frequently happens."
"You may be perfectly easy on that point," said Morand. "Besides, you can remind me."
Geneviève then rose from table, and Maurice followed her example. Morand was about to leave also, and perhaps to follow them, when one of the workmen brought the chemist a small vial containing some liquid which instantly engrossed all his attention.
"Let us make haste," said Maurice, drawing away Geneviève.
"Oh, be assured," said she, "he will remain there for an hour at the very least."
And the young woman allowed him to take her hand, which he tenderly pressed between his own. She felt remorse for her treachery, and tried to compensate for it by her kindness.
"Do you see," said she to Maurice, crossing the garden and showing him the carnations, which had been removed into the air with the hope of reviving them,—"do you see my flowers are all dead?"
"What killed them?" said Maurice; "your neglect? Poor carnations!"
"It was not my neglect, but your desertion, kind sir."