M. Hervart was little interested in dialectal forms; rather spitefully and with the true Parisian's fatuous vanity, he replied:
"What an ugly word! You ought to say South-east. You're a regular peasant woman."
"Laugh away," said Rose. "I don't mind, now. We're all country-people; my father comes from these parts, so does my mother. I wasn't born here, but I belong to the place. I belong to it as the trees do, as the grass and all the animals. Yes, I am a peasant woman."
She raised her head proudly.
"I come from here too," said M. Hervart.
"Yes, and you don't care for it any longer."
"I do, because it produced you and because you love it."
Delighted at the discovery of this insipidity, M. Hervart darted, hat in hand, in pursuit of a butterfly; he missed it.
"They're not so easy to catch as kisses," said Rose with a touch of irony.
M. Hervart was startled.