Old Durand sat down on the running-board of his car and watched. He had seen his château, and he had seen Beaucourt, and perhaps he had been a little discouraged, though Manon had warned him against what he called “la maladie des ruines,” but as he watched the cheerful activities of these two, Brent hauling up the sheets and nailing them down with the speed and precision of a human machine, the adventure of it thrilled him.
“Hallo, that’s life,” he said, “the spirit of youth that strives and creates. Youth is not daunted. Look at that fellow’s strong brown arms, and the little Manon with her sleeves rolled up. Mon Dieu! but it is splendid! Ça ira, ça ira!”
He threw his big note-book on to the front seat of the car, took off his coat, and was ready for the dance. He could not resist the music of those two happy figures, and the fine clang of the hammer.
“Hallo, you two, here is a recruit. Set me to work, my dear.”
Manon exclaimed as only a Frenchwoman can exclaim.
“Monsieur has caught the fever! We shall all call you Papa Durand, Père de Beaucourt.”
Anatole winked at Paul.
“Now let us see what she will give me to do! She has made use of my rope——”
Manon stood considering, hands on hips.
“I have it. Monsieur was always a great gardener.”