She then took upon her lap the bundles of grass and flowers, and began throwing out everything that appeared to her of inferior quality.

She handed over to Lucan, seated a step or two from her, whatever she thought fit to retain for the final bouquet, justifying gravely her decision upon each plant that she examined: "You, my dear, you are too thin! you're pretty, but too short! you, you smell bad! you, you look stupid." Then, turning abruptly into another train of thought, which was not at first without causing some uneasiness to Monsieur de Lucan: "It was you, wasn't it, who advised Pierre to speak to me with firmness ?" "I ?" said Lucan, "what an idea!" "It must have been you.

You," she went on again, speaking to her flowers, "you look sickly, good-night! Yes, it must have been you.

One might think you quite meek, to look at you, whereas, on the contrary, you are very harsh, very tyrannical." "Ferocious!" said Lucan.
"At any rate, I have no fault to find with you for that.

You were right; poor Pierre is too weak with me.