“That canvas?”
“Yes.”
“How delightful! But can you do it alone?”
“No. Two hands to stretch it, while the other nails.”
“Let’s begin at once,” said Manon.
And that is how Anatole Durand found them, perched up on the joists, Manon stretching the canvas while Paul drove in the tacks. They were so busy hammering, talking, laughing, and the rain made such a patter on the iron roof that they had not heard his car. But Anatole Durand was an event. He had not happened for three weeks.
“Hallo, mes enfants!”
Two faces looked down at him.
“Monsieur Durand! But what do you think of our ceiling?”
“Magnificent!” said Anatole, and, in a hurry to get out a dramatic cry of his own, “And what do you think of my American dump?”