“Of course, he’s far away out there in the field, mowing,” she said, as if in apology for something or other. “Yes, he’s ever so far away,” was his reply, as he turned half lazily to the open doorway.
Neither spoke for a moment. The eyes of both were on the distant harvest-fields. Vaguely, not decisively, the hazy, indolent air of summer was broken by the lazy droning of the locusts and grasshoppers. A driver was calling to his oxen down the dusty road, the warning bark of a dog came across the fields from the gap in the fence which he was tending, and the blades of the scythes made three-quarter circles of light as the mowers travelled down the wheat-fields.
When their eyes met again, the glasses of cordial were at their lips. He held her look by the intentional warmth and meaning of his own, drinking very slowly to the last drop; and then, like a bon viveur, drew a breath of air through his open mouth, and nodded his satisfaction.
“By Jove, but it is good stuff!” he said. “Here’s to the nun that made it,” he added, making a motion to drink from the empty glass.
Sophie had not drunk all her cordial. At least one third of it was still in the glass. She turned her head away, a little dismayed by his toast.
“Come, that’s not fair,” he said. “That elixir shouldn’t be wasted. Voila, every drop of it now!” he added, with an insinuating smile and gesture.
“Oh, m’sieu’!” she said in protest, but drank it off. He still held the empty glass in his hand, twisting it round musingly.
“A little more, m’sieu’?” she asked, “just a little?” Perhaps she was surprised that he did not hesitate. He instantly held out his glass.
“It was made by a saint; the result should be health and piety—I need both,” he added, with a little note of irony in his voice.
“So, once again, my giver of good gifts—to you!” He raised his glass again, toasting her, but paused. “No, this won’t do; you must join me,” he added.