“Isn’t that a picture?” said the sergeant. He had pushed open the kitchen door; and Eugene, looking in, saw a small, exquisitely clean room, with pictures on the walls, and white curtains at the windows, and a woman cooking something over a gas-stove.
“Well, wife,” said the sergeant agreeably, “I’ve brought a visitor home to-night; he’s the little French boy I told you about. He has had a great misfortune,—his grandfather is dead;” and he gently pushed Eugene forward.
The woman raised her head slightly; and Eugene saw that she had a fresh face, rather younger than the sergeant’s, clear blue eyes, and a quantity of soft white hair.
“Stephen,” she said, in a spoiled, almost childish voice, “how could you? there’s only stew enough for two, and you know I don’t like boys.”
“Yes, yes, I know,” he said good-naturedly. “Here’s the boy; just look round and tell him so yourself.”
Mrs. Hardy did turn around in the twinkling of an eye, the uplifted spoon in her hand. “How do you do?” she said quickly. “I didn’t see you—don’t mind what I say. I have just a little prejudice against boys, because they tease my cats.”
“And this boy has a little prejudice against you on two scores,” said the sergeant, chuckling amiably.
“What are they?” asked Mrs. Hardy.
“I’ll tell you later on,” said the sergeant.
Mrs. Hardy laughed softly, and bent her white head over the stove; while her husband pointed to a rocking-chair drawn up by one of the windows, and hospitably invited Eugene to sit down on it.