“Monsieur,” she said in her most melodious tone, “are you very busy?”

“Oh, not at all!” he replied, rising at the same time.

“It’s because, you see, the weather is perfectly delightful,” she said.  “Will you come and take a walk with me?”

“Of course I will.”

“Well, come then.  Good Heavens! how sweet this honeysuckle does smell!”

And she snatched off a few flowers, which she threw to Lucan through the window, with a burst of laughter.  He fastened them in his button-hole, making the gesture of a man who understands nothing of what is going on, but who has no reason to be angry.

He found her in fresh morning costume, stamping upon the sand with her light and impatient foot.

“Monsieur de Lucan,” she cries, gayly, “my mother wishes me to be amiable with you, my husband wishes it, Heaven wills it, too, I suppose; that’s why I am willing also, and I assure you that I can be very amiable when I try.  You’ll see!”

“Is it possible?” said Lucan.

“You’ll see, sir!” she replied, dropping him with all possible grace, a regular stage curtsey.

“And where are we going, pray, madam?”

“Wherever you like—­through the woods, at random, if you please.”

The wooded hills came so close to the chateau, that they bordered with a fringe of shade one side of the yard.  Monsieur de Lucan and Julia took the first path that came in their way; but it was not long before Julia left the beaten road-way, to walk at hazard from tree to tree, wandering at random, beating the thickets with her cane, picking flowers or leaves, stopping in ecstasy before the luminous bands that striped here and there the mossy carpets, frankly intoxicated with movement, open air, sunshine, and youth.  While walking, she cast to her companion words of pleasant fellowship, playful interpellation, childish jests, and caused the woods to ring again with the melody of her laughter.

In her admiration for the wild flowers, she had gradually collected a regular bundle, of which Monsieur de Lucan accepted the burden with cheerful resignation.  Noticing that he was almost bending under the weight, she sat down upon the gnarled roots of an old oak, in order, she said, to make a selection among all this pell-mell.  She then took upon her lap the bundles of grass and flowers, and began throwing out everything that appeared to her of inferior quality.  She handed over to Lucan, seated a step or two from her, whatever she thought fit to retain for the final bouquet, justifying gravely her decision upon each plant that she examined: 

“You, my dear, you are too thin! you’re pretty, but too short! you, you smell bad! you, you look stupid.”

Then, turning abruptly into another train of thought, which was not at first without causing some uneasiness to Monsieur de Lucan: 

“It was you, wasn’t it, who advised Pierre to speak to me with firmness?”