have left him, very likely, by the time he returned. At this thought M. Hervart frowned. At the same time the pressure of his fingers relaxed.
Rose looked at him:
"What are you thinking about?"
"Again!" said M. Hervart to himself. "Oh, that eternal feminine question! As if anyone ever answered it! Here's my answer...."
Looking at the clouds, he pronounced:
"I think it's going to rain."
"Oh, no!" said Rose, "I don't think so. The wind is 'suet'...."
Conscious of having uttered a provincialism, she made haste to add:
"As the country people say."
"What does it mean?"
"South-east."
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
