"It isn't a question of liking; it's a question of living. I may as well tell you at once that since my husband's death I have my own bread to earn."
To no Frenchwoman of her rank in life could this statement have been an easy one, but by making it with a certain quiet outspokenness she hoped to cover up her foolish sense of shame. The moment was not made less difficult for her by the astonishment, mingled with embarrassment, with which he took her remark.
"You!" he cried. "You!"
"It isn't anything very unusual, is it?" she smiled.
"I'm not the first person in the world to make the attempt."
"And may I ask if you're succeeding?"
"I haven't begun yet. I only arrived a few days ago."
"Oh, I see. You've come here—"
"In the hope of finding employment—just like the rest of the disinherited of the earth. I hope to give French lessons, and—"
"There's always an opening to any one who can," he interrupted, encouragingly. "I'm not without influence in one or two good schools that my daughter has attended—"