'Never.'
The O'Hoolohan was beginning to be curiously fidgety again.
'I have been reading it these latter days. A wise, affectionate book written by a wise, affectionate man. It was in it I found an Indian maxim referred to which says la femme c'est la maison: "the wife is the home." There, sir, you have the whole philosophy of the soldier's unsatisfying life. He has no home; he wants the wife to make it.'
The old man buried his face in his hands.
There was a long pause, during which Berthe, agitated at the turn the conversation had taken, could count the throbbing of her pulse. Her grandfather, no longer able to dissemble his anguish, silently nursed his grief in the cradle of memory. The suitor, who had been craftily leading up the dialogue to the avowal he wished, yet feared to make, if his face were index, was a prey to a violent mental struggle. At length, with an effort, which made itself physically perceptible in a jump on his chair, he broke the silence:
'Captain Chauvin, you're listening. About this private business I would speak with you.'
The old man raised his head.
Berthe tried to rise from her seat, but found herself unable. Poor, pretty creature, she had miscalculated her strength. She had yet to learn that there are other feelings that can rob the limbs of their functions than terror or ecstasy of joy.
The Irishman resumed: