Etienne munched bread, and still stared at the ceiling.
“It is wonderful,” he said, “quite astonishing.”
After the meal he harnessed his horse and prepared to drive off.
“I must bring my plough over here one day,” he said; “an acre or two of ploughed ground would be useful.”
That was the way of the Casteners; they did not appear to see much, but they saw what mattered.
When Etienne had gone, Manon lit the stove and put on the coffee-pot. There was no more work to be done that day; it was a saint’s day; there was something sacramental about it. Manon pointed out the yellow dog, who had curled himself on the arm-chair in the sunlight.
“We will call him ‘Philosophe,’ ” she said; “he has set us a good example. But there is no reason why he should have that chair. It is yours.”
Brent smiled, picked up Philosophe, and sat down in the chair with the dog on his lap. He lit his pipe, and they drank coffee, and talked. Manon’s eyes kept glancing round the room, caressing everything in it, the soft eyes of a woman who is happy. The room was uncomfortably high, the walls showed patches of discoloured plaster and raw brickwork, and the window of the room above let in rather too much fresh air—but it had the atmosphere of home. You could light a lamp at night, and draw up intimate chairs close to the stove.
“What will you do next?”
Paul was pulling the yellow dog’s ears.