She rose. Night had fallen, and in the distance under their eyes the great town starred itself with lights.
Marcel offered his arm to Sophie, and whilst the older men argued with one another, the two sauntered together along the sombre alleys. Marcel found them charming, and Sophie supplied him in turn with their names and associations.
“Here,” she said, “we are in the Allée de Jean Jacques, which leads to the Salon d’Emile. This alley was straight. I had it deflected so that it should pass under the old oak. All day long it gives shade to this rustic bench, which I have called 'Friendship’s Rest.'
“We will sit down for a moment on this bench,” said Sophie.
They sat down. In the silence Marcel could hear the fluttering of his own heart.
“Sophie, I love you,” he murmured, and captured her hand.
She drew it away gently, and pointing out to the young man that a light breeze had set the leaves rustling—
“Do you hear that?” she said.
“I hear the wind among the leaves.”
She shook her head, and said in tones as sweet as a chant—