She was no longer listening; her chin in her hand, her glances wandered over the glade.  He touched her arm gently to rouse her, and said:  “It is all over?  You love him?”

“Why will you make me say so?” she replied, blushing.

“And he has declared himself?  He has dared——­”

“He has dared nothing.  Ah! how little you know him!  If you were to offer me to him, his pride would say no, and I would have to go down on my knees to get the better of his refusal.”

“We will say, at once, that he is unique, that he is a marvel, that there is not a second Pole like him; the mould has been broken.  And yet are you sure that he loves you?”

She replied by a motion of the head.

“I should confess,” he resumed, “that the passion that is called the grand passion is for me a sealed letter, the mystery of mysteries.  I am completely ignorant of it.  Yet that did not prevent my marrying, and making a choice that brought me great happiness.  Your method is different, and I must believe that you have yielded to an irresistible force.  It seems to me, however, that resistance can always be made.  You have will, character—­”

She interrupted him, murmuring, “It is either he or no one.”

“Oh! if it comes to that,” he continued, “you are of age, and mistress of your actions; there is nothing for me but to submit.  Still, it will be painful to you, I like to believe, to marry in opposition to my wishes.”

“Do you doubt it?  I am willing not to marry.”

“Bad solution!  It is worse than the other.  Let us come to terms.  The positive has its place only in science.  It is absolutely true that borax is a salt composed of boracic acid and soda.  Beyond such facts all is uncertain.  Does this happy man surmise the sentiments he has inspired?”

“I tell you that you do not know him?  Do you take him for a coxcomb?  When he came this morning to announce his departure, his serious intention was to bid us an eternal farewell, and never to see me again.”

“A most excellent idea that,” sighed M. Moriaz.  “Unfortunately, you represented to him that it took but two hours to go from Paris to Cormeilles.”

“I had trouble to persuade him of it.”

“Well, since the matter stands thus, nothing is yet lost.  You know, my dear, that my physician advised me to beware of abrupt transitions, and not to change too suddenly from the keen air of Engadine to the heavy atmosphere of the plains.  On leaving Saint Moritz, we will descend five hundred metres lower, and remain three weeks at Churwalden; consequently, we will not be in Paris for a month.  You will employ this month in somewhat calming your imagination.  It is very easy for it to become excited in these mountain-holes, without taking into account the wearisomeness of hotel-life.  From the very day after our arrival you took a dislike to the paper in our little salon, and its squares, I confess, are very ugly.  In every square, a thrush stretching out its neck to peck a currant.  Two hundred thrushes and two hundred currants—­it was enough to weary you to death.  Suddenly there appears a Pole—­”