"Oh, Rose is much too well bred."
The silliness of this woman, so reasonable and natural, none the less, in her rôle of mother, exasperated M. Hervart even more than the insinuations to which he had been obliged to listen. Ceasing, not to hesitate, but to reflect, he said abruptly:
"I shall be very sorry to see her married."
Mme. Des Boys pressed his hand:
"Dear friend! yes, it will make a big difference in our home."
She went on, after a moment's hesitation:
"Not a word about all this, dear Hervart; you understand. And now I think that the tête-a-tête has perhaps gone on long enough; it would be very nice of you if you'd go and join them."
M. Hervart, impatient though he was, made his way slowly through the meanders of the little copse. Like Panurge, he kept repeating to himself, "Marry her? or not marry her?"
His head was a clock in which a pendulum swung indefatigably. He sat down on the little bench where, for the first time, he had fell the girl's head coming gently to rest on his shoulder. He wanted to think.
"I must come to a decision," he said to himself.