"Fool!" he made answer, harshly yet not unkindly. "When will you know that so long as an old man lives so long it cannot be 'well' with him?"
"Need one be a man, or old, to answer so?"
She spoke in the accent and the language of the province, but with a voice rich and pure and cold; not the voice of the north, or of any peasantry.
She put her basket down from off her head, and leaned against the trunk of the poplar beside him, crossing her arms upon her bare chest.
"To the young everything is possible; to the old nothing," he said curtly.
Her eyes gleamed with a thirsty longing; she made him no reply.
He broke off half his dry bread and tendered it to her. She shook her head and motioned it away; yet she was as sharp-hungered as any hawk that has hunted all through the night and the woods, and has killed nothing. The growing life, the superb strength, the lofty stature of her made her need constant nourishment, as young trees need it; and she was fed as scantily as a blind beggar's dog, and less willingly than a galley-slave.
The kindly air had fed her richly, strongly, continually; that was all.
"Possible!" she said slowly, after awhile. "What is 'possible'? I do not understand."
The old man, Marcellin, smiled grimly.