As the clock struck half-past seven he laid his knife down and wiped his beardless mouth.
"Bathilde," he said, "you are very kind to a poor afflicted mourner."
"Ah—Désiré!"
She was a woman of much sense, and she did not try to be coy.
"My heart, as you know, lies in the grave with my poor Joséphine——"
"But of course, my dear friend——"
"But—man is not fit to live all alone. And I am convinced that if I could ask her, that angel would——" He paused and looked approvingly round the tidy, comfortable little room.
"Yes—Désiré? She would——"
"I think she would—wish me to do the best I can for myself. And that, of course—I mean to say I imagine——"
Poor Bathilde's hopes died suddenly.