"This one's me."
M. Hervart had to begin pondering again. He was feeling happy, but understood less and less.
"She behaves as though she were in love with me.... She also behaves as though she weren't. At one moment one would think that I was everything to her. A little later she treats me like a mere friend of the family..... And it's she who leads me on.... I have never seen that with flirts.... Where can she have learnt it? Women are like the noblemen in Molière's time: they know everything without having been taught anything at all."
M. Hervart weighed down in mind, but light of heart, went up to his room, so as to be able to meditate more at ease. First of all he smarted himself up with some care. He plucked from his beard a hair, which, if not quite silver, was certainly very pale gold. He scented his waistcoat and slipped on his finger an elaborately chased ring.
"It may come in useful when conversation begins to flag."
He was about to begin his meditations, when somebody knocked at the door. Luncheon was ready.
M. Des Boys, despite the disturbance of his plans seemed pleased. A drive, he declared would do him good. He needed an outing; besides he had a right to one.
"I have just finished the ninth panel of my of my life of Sainte Clotilde. It is her entry too the convent of Saint Martin at Tours."
M. Hervart manifested an interest in this composition, which he had admired the previous evening before it had been given the final touches. He hoped to see it soon in its proper frame, with the other panels in Robinvast church.
"There are going to be twelve in all," said M. Des Boys.