In the first cool hours of the morning she walked a little in the perfumed air of the pine woods, and the rest of the time she devoted to a voluminous correspondence, which seemed to be her one passion.

Thus Loulou was alone nearly always in the morning, and frequently in the afternoon as well, and quite contented to ramble with Wilhelm through the woods, or to sit with him in the ruins, where they learned to know each other, and chattered without ceasing.
The subject of conversation mattered not.

They had the story of their short lives to relate to one another.

Loulou's was soon told.

Her narrative was like the merry warbling of birds, and was from beginning to end the story of a serene dream of spring.