but whose hearts drew them together. Who can tell? In any case, don't you think that their secret belongs to them and that there is no reason that authorizes us to violate it?"
"What do you mean?"
"Oh, mother, tell me what reasons you can have, tell me before that angel who is listening to us! You treated them as rubbish just now: have they become graver reasons since? State them: express your fear of public opinion, your dread of evil tongues, your horror of comment; and, as you do so, look into that pair of child-eyes and ask yourself if they understand what you are saying."
She protested feebly:
"What a strange wish, Guillaume! There is something which you are keeping back."
"Yes," he cried, rising from his chair, "there is something else which I do not see clearly. ... It is my love that objects. ...
