"Haven't you outgrown that? There was enough of it yesterday," he said.
"You ought not to complain. What a welcome you had, and what a triumph, too!"
"Oh, that was not much. You should see the leaping and the wrestling up north. And the great bounds with the pole! That's the thing when one has a long journey. And the snowshoes—ah, that is the sport!"
"I was desperately homesick at first. I had half a mind to run away. But when I once got really used to the people and the life—it was the making of me, Jeanne."
He stretched up proudly and swelled up his broad chest, enjoying his manhood.
"You will go back?" she asked, tentatively.
"Well—that depends. Father wants me to stay. He begins to see that I am worth something. But pouf! how do people live in this crowded up town in the winter! It is dirtier than ever. The Americans have not improved it much. You see there is Rose and Angelique, before Baptiste, and he is rather puny, and father is getting old. Then, I could go up north every two or three years. Well, one finds out your worth when you go away."
He gave a loud, rather exultant laugh that jarred on Jeanne. Why were these rough characteristics so repellant to her? She had lived with them all her short life. From whence came the other side of her nature that longed for refinement, cultivated speech, and manners? And people of real education, not merely the business faculty, the figuring and bargain making, were more to her taste. M. Fleury was a gentleman, like M. St. Armand.
Pierre stretched out his long legs and crossed his feet, then slipped his hands into his pockets. He seemed to take up half the room.