“Thanks,” he said, “I am not hungry; I have had too much trouble.”
She replied:
“In spite of sorrow, we must live. You will not refuse to let me get something for you! And then you will remain a little longer. When you are gone I don't know what will become of me.”
He yielded after some further resistance, and, sitting down with his back to the fire, facing her, he ate a plateful of tripe, which had been bubbling in the stove, and drank a glass of red wine. But he would not allow her to uncork the bottle of white wine. He several times wiped the mouth of the little boy, who had smeared all his chin with sauce.
As he was rising up to go, he asked:
“When would you like me to come back to speak about this business to you, Mam'zelle Donet?”
“If it is all the same to you, say next Thursday, Monsieur César. In that way I would lose none of my time, as I always have my Thursdays free.”
“That will suit me—next Thursday.”
“You will come to lunch. Won't you?”
“Oh! On that point I can't give you a promise.”