asked herself the same dangerous question. Then suddenly, a wave of red mounted to her head. She had just remembered all the amusements into which her own innocence and M. Hervart's perverse good-nature had led her.
"I am dishonoured," she said to herself. "Am I a maiden?"
This was the first time that she had felt any shame in calling to mind the kisses and caresses in which her heart, rather than her body, had felt pleasure. Though she was unconscious of the transference, the pain which she still felt had, without changing its nature, changed its cause.
When Leonor said good-morning she felt herself blushing and immediately turned her head, to discover an imaginary piece of thread on her skirt.
"So it's to-morrow that we shall have to drive you back," said M. Des Boys.
"If the garden isn't arranged before the winter," said Rose, "we shall have to wait till next autumn."
"Obviously," said Leonor; "one can't transplant in the spring. At least, it's a most delicate operation."
