Frankly, and without showing any surprise, she answered:
"So do I, my dear."
At the same time she shook her skirt on which a number of ants were crawling.
"This sort doesn't bite," she said. "They're nice...."
"Like you." (What a compliment! How insipid! What a fool I'm making of myself!)
"There's one on your sleeve," said Rose. She brushed it off.
"Now say thank you," and she presented her cheek, on which M. Hervart printed the most fraternal of kisses.
"It's incomprehensible," he thought. "However, I don't think she's in love. If she were, she would run away. It is only after the decisive act that love becomes familiar...."
"If we want to go to Cherbourg," said Rose, "we must have lunch early."
They moved away; soon they were out of the wood and had entered the hardly less unkempt garden. It was sunny there, and they crossed it quickly. She walked ahead. M. Hervart picked a rose as he went along and presented it to her. Rose took it and picked another, which she gave to M. Hervart, saying: