“It isn’t much, I assure you,” he went on. “But it will do for a while in Paris. I mean––if you will go with me––to find my old master, or another. You know, Marion, he said to me many times: ‘You’re going to be a painter some day, mon petit; you’re going to do big things, if you’ll work, work, work.’ And so––”
“You’ll paint again!” she cried. “Oh, and I shall keep house for you! You may not believe it, but I’m a splendid cook. But I’ve got to have salt. You must earn enough to buy salt!”
“I’ll try.”
At that he rose, and went again to the cabinet from which he had brought the photograph, and returned with his hands behind his back.
“What do you suppose I’ve got for our mantelpiece––if we have such a thing in our attic?”
“What in the world, Philip?”
“Shut your eyes, please!”
She obeyed, and in the middle of the table he set down the tattered and grimy little boot that he had carried away from the cave.
“Now open!” he commanded.