drawers, she turned to Hippolyte, and said with a blush:

"I am not tall enough. Will you get it down?"

A feeling of modesty, betrayed in the expression of her face and
the tones of her voice, was the real motive of her request; and
the young man, understanding this, gave her one of those glances
of intelligence which are the sweetest language of love. Seeing
that the painter had read her soul, Adelaide cast down her eyes
with the instinct of reserve which is the secret of a maiden's
heart. Hippolyte, finding nothing to say, and feeling almost
timid, took down the picture, examined it gravely, carrying it to
the light of the window, and then went away, without saying a
word to Mademoiselle Leseigneur but, "I will return it soon."

During this brief moment they both went through one of those
storms of agitation of which the effects in the soul may be
compared to those of a stone flung into a deep lake. The most
delightful waves of thought rise and follow each other,
indescribable, repeated, and aimless, tossing the heart like the
circular ripples, which for a long time fret the waters, starting
from the point where the stone fell.

Hippolyte returned to the studio bearing the portrait. His easel
was ready with a fresh canvas, and his palette set, his brushes
cleaned, the spot and the light carefully chosen. And till the
dinner hour he worked at the painting with the ardor artists
throw into their whims. He went again that evening to the Baronne
de Rouville's, and remained from nine till eleven. Excepting the
different topics of conversation, this evening was exactly like