She trembled but continued bravely:
"I mean that we have not much money today, and we shall not get any perhaps until tomorrow ... so...."
He looked at her, then glanced round the room, as though for the first time remarking their poverty; then he put his notebook back in his pocket.
"We won't change the treatment until tomorrow, then," he said. "There is no hurry for this. Continue the same today."
"No hurry!" Perrine repeated the words to herself. There was no hurry then ... her mother was not so ill as she had feared; they had just to wait and hope....
Wednesday was the day for which she was waiting, yet at the same time how she dreaded it. Dear, dear Palikare.... Whenever her mother did not need her she would run out into the field and kiss his nose and talk to him, and as he had no work to do, and all the thistles to eat that he wanted and his little mistress' love, he was the happiest donkey in the world.
"Ah, if you only knew," murmured Perrine, as she caressed him.
But he did not know. All he knew was that she loved him and that the thistles were good. So, as she kissed and kissed, he brayed in contentment and shook his long ears as he looked at her from the corner of his eyes.
Besides, he had made friends with Grain-of-Salt and had received a proof of his friendship in a way that flattered his greed. On Monday, having broken loose, he had trotted up to Grain-of-Salt, who was occupied in sorting out the rags and bones that had just arrived, and he stood beside him. The man was about to pour out a drink from the bottle that was always beside him when he saw Palikare, his eyes fixed on him, his neck stretched out.
"What are you doing here?" he asked. As the words were not said in anger, the donkey knew, and he did not move.