Sometimes his steps are turned in the direction of the happy abode; he may hope to see Sophy without her knowing, to see her out walking without being seen.  But Emile is always quite open in everything he does; he neither can nor would deceive.  His delicacy is of that pleasing type in which pride rests on the foundation of a good conscience.  He keeps strictly within bounds, and never comes near enough to gain from chance what he only desires to win from Sophy herself.  On the other hand, he delights to roam about the neighbourhood, looking for the trace of Sophy’s steps, feeling what pains she has taken and what a distance she has walked to please him.

The day before his visit, he will go to some neighbouring farm and order a little feast for the morrow.  We shall take our walk in that direction without any special object, we shall turn in apparently by chance; fruit, cakes, and cream are waiting for us.  Sophy likes sweets, so is not insensible to these attentions, and she is quite ready to do honour to what we have provided; for I always have my share of the credit even if I have had no part in the trouble; it is a girl’s way of returning thanks more easily.  Her father and I have cakes and wine; Emile keeps the ladies company and is always on the look-out to secure a dish of cream in which Sophy has dipped her spoon.

The cakes lead me to talk of the races Emile used to run.  Every one wants to hear about them; I explain amid much laughter; they ask him if he can run as well as ever.  “Better,” says he; “I should be sorry to forget how to run.”  One member of the company is dying to see him run, but she dare not say so; some one else undertakes to suggest it; he agrees and we send for two or three young men of the neighbourhood; a prize is offered, and in imitation of our earlier games a cake is placed on the goal.  Every one is ready, Sophy’s father gives the signal by clapping his hands.  The nimble Emile flies like lightning and reaches the goal almost before the others have started.  He receives his prize at Sophy’s hands, and no less generous than Aeneas, he gives gifts to all the vanquished.

In the midst of his triumph, Sophy dares to challenge the victor, and to assert that she can run as fast as he.  He does not refuse to enter the lists with her, and while she is getting ready to start, while she is tucking up her skirt at each side, more eager to show Emile a pretty ankle than to vanquish him in the race, while she is seeing if her petticoats are short enough, he whispers a word to her mother who smiles and nods approval.  Then he takes his place by his competitor; no sooner is the signal given than she is off like a bird.

Women were not meant to run; they flee that they may be overtaken.  Running is not the only thing they do ill, but it is the only thing they do awkwardly; their elbows glued to their sides and pointed backwards look ridiculous, and the high heels on which they are perched make them look like so many grasshoppers trying to run instead of to jump.