(He didn't understand at all, the dear boy. . . .)
She raised her eyes to Roger, who, with perfect tranquillity, was awaiting her response. She said:
"Roger, look at me. Haven't I good legs?"
"Good and beautiful," said he.
"That!" she said, menacing him with her finger, "that is not the question. . . . Am I not a strong walker?"
"Of course," he said. "And I like you to be."
"Well, then, do you think that I am going to let myself be carried? . . . You are very kind, very kind, and I thank you; but let me walk! I am not one of those who fear the fatigues of the road. To take them away from me is to take away my appetite for life. I rather have the impression that you and your family would like to free me from the trouble of acting and of choosing, would like to arrange everything in advance in prescribed pigeonholes, very comfortably—your life, their life, my life—the whole future. I shouldn't want that. I don't want it. I feel that I am at the beginning. I am seeking. I know that I have need of seeking, of seeking myself."
Roger's air was benevolent and bantering.
"And what can you seek?"
He saw here the crotchets of a young girl. She felt it, and said in a provoked tone: