one."

Then he offered it to his wife.

"Would you like to look?"

"No, thank you. I know before hand that I could not see through it."

Mme. Roland, a woman of eight-and-forty but who did not look it, seemed
to be enjoying this excursion and this waning day more than any of the
party.

Her chestnut hair was only just beginning to show streaks of white. She
had a calm, reasonable face, a kind and happy way with her which it
was a pleasure to see. Her son Pierre was wont to say that she knew the
value of money, but this did not hinder her from enjoying the delights
of dreaming. She was fond of reading, of novels, and poetry, not for
their value as works of art, but for the sake of the tender melancholy
mood they would induce in her. A line of poetry, often but a poor one,
often a bad one, would touch the little chord, as she expressed it, and
give her the sense of some mysterious desire almost realized. And she
delighted in these faint emotions which brought a little flutter to her
soul, otherwise as strictly kept as a ledger.

Since settling at Havre she had become perceptibly stouter, and her
figure, which had been very supple and slight, had grown heavier.

This day on the sea had been delightful to her. Her husband, without
being brutal, was rough with her, as a man who is the despot of his
shop is apt to be rough, without anger or hatred; to such men to give an