He sat down in the arm-chair and watched Manon laying the table. She was very good to watch, and every now and again her eyes gave him the glimmer of light that a woman gives to her lover.
“Let him pass—Paul Rance, a good Frenchman.”
“I believe I shall pass,” he said. “I like your people. They smell of the soil.”
She balanced a fork, pointing it at him.
“And remember, they will like you. You see, you are such a good fellow, and——”
He sprang up suddenly and caught her, and holding her face between his hands, looked long and steadily into her eyes.
“Yes, you are just my life. I had to fight for you, didn’t I? But I have been afraid, ma chérie, that these people might not want me here. I might be found out.”
“Do not run to meet troubles,” she said; “you will have very good friends in Beaucourt. Besides——”
She clasped his wrists for a moment with her two hands, and then moved gently away to lift a boiling kettle from the stove.
“Let us look at the house—afterwards, at everything.”