He stretched his long legs toward the stove. He had eaten to his fill and now lighted his pipe, watching his wife as she bent over the steaming pan of dishes in the sink.
Marcel did not turn; ideas were uninteresting, and Longville's generally involved her in more work and no profit.
"'Tis about Pierre, your good-for-nothing brother."
"What about him?" asked Marcel. Blood was blood after all and she resented Longville's superior tone.
"Since Margot died he has had a rough time of it," mused the Captain, "caring for the boy and shifting for himself. It has been hard for Pierre."
"You want him and Tom—here?" Marcel turned now, the greasy water dripping from her red hands. She had small use for her brother, but her heart yearned over the motherless Tom.
"God forbid," ejaculated Longville, "but a man must pity such a life as Pierre's."
"Pierre takes his pleasures," sighed Marcel, "as all can testify."
"You mean that a man should have no pleasure?" snapped the Captain. "You women are devilish hard."
"I meant no wrong. 'Tis no business of mine."