Paul took a fancy to Etienne. He was one of those silent fellows with the smell of the soil about him, and he had no tricks.
“Some things are worth working for. Shall I help you unload the cart?”
Manon had walked into the kitchen and found herself entangled in a new atmosphere. It, too, had a door, only a matchboard door it is true, but the door gave the room a new homeliness. She saw the dresser with its crockery, the box of wood by the stove, the table by the window, the blue and white jug with its posy of sallow bloom. Her heart seemed to utter a little cry of pleasure and of tenderness. She went forward, picked up the jug, and buried her face in the yellow palm.
“A Frenchman would not have thought of it,” she said.
She heard the two men struggling with something heavy.
“Manon!”
She ran out.
“Where will you have this?”
It was the cupboard.
“It is for you, Paul.”