So there came a day when the scent of the roses sickened him, when the twisting paths maddened him, and he stood before the little mistress of them all, white, stern, beaten.
"I have come to say good-bye," he said, and the tone of his voice had changed.
"Good-bye?" she repeated, and she gave him her hand without another word.
"I would like to thank you for your kindness to me," he said dully; "but—well, perhaps some day you will understand what I feel now. I know you are too good for me. I don't see why you should ever have cared for me; but oh! my little Stéphanie, you are just all the world to me——"
His voice broke, and he turned away down one of the little sunny paths. But there amongst the roses love came to him at last; for Stéphanie, with a sudden radiance in her face which sent all the pride away, ran after him, and he, seeing the radiance, straightway took her into his arms, and the scent of the roses grew sweet to him again.
And all the explanation mademoiselle ever saw fit to give of her many unkind moods was—"You were so masterful, monsieur. You hammered out love, love, love, and 'you must,' and 'you shall'—till that day—then you wooed me as I would that I should be wooed."
And he, remembering the words he had overheard when he stood beneath the garden wall, smiled and thought he understood.
Not all peace was his wooing even now.
His little mistress still had her moods, and was tantalisingly chary of her soft words and caresses. Moreover, she possessed a will that had never been thwarted, and she did not understand the words "shall" and "must," never having had them said to her.
So that, sweet as he found his wooing, at times his brow grew dark; for he too had a strong will, and it irked him to have to make it give way to hers.