Her anxious eyes, her charming lips, her slip of a figure, were as touching as a childish prayer.

He had now an acute desire to know just to what point she liked him--a desire which made him fidget as he sat in his chair.

It made him feel hot, so that he had to pat his forehead with his handkerchief; he had never been so uncomfortable.

She was such a perfect jeune fille, and one couldn't make of a jeune fille the enquiry requisite for throwing light on such a point.

A jeune fille was what Rosier had always dreamed of--a jeune fille who should yet not be French, for he had felt that this nationality would complicate the question.