events ought to revolve around her desires and tastes, had suffered this
cruel surprise with more astonishment than grief.

"And you, how do you think I look?" Marguerite queried.

"I must tell you that the fashion has changed. The sheath skirt has
passed away. Now it is worn short and with more fullness."

Desnoyers had to interest himself in her apparel with the same devotion,
mixing his appreciation of the latest freak of the fashion-monger with
his eulogies of Marguerite's beauty.

"Have you thought much about me?" she continued. "You have not been
unfaithful to me a single time? Not even once? . . . Tell me the truth;
you know I can always tell when you are lying."

"I have always thought of you," he said putting his hand on his heart,
as if he were swearing before a judge.

And he said it roundly, with an accent of truth, since in his
infidelities--now completely forgotten--the memory of Marguerite had
always been present.

"But let us talk about you!" added Julio. "What have you been doing all
the time?"

He had brought his chair nearer to hers, and their knees touched. He
took one of her hands, patting it and putting his finger in the glove
opening. Oh, that accursed garden which would not permit greater
intimacy and obliged them to speak in a low tone, after three months'