Manon was laying out the new sheets with the naturalness of a woman whose whole heart was absorbed in the great affair.
“Yes, I expect so. Paul is such a man for thoroughness. He insisted on finishing all the repairs before we thought of marrying. What do you think of this linen?”
The women examined the sheets, holding them up to the light, stretching them between their hands, and even scratching the fabric with their finger-nails. They talked all the while, and, though Manon used her tongue, her eyes were the essentially eloquent part of her. “We are going to be happy,” she said; “I feel it in my blood and in my soul.”
Madame Philipon was rubbing the linen between a thumb and forefinger.
“It is not so good as before the war.”
“Nothing is,” said Madame Poupart; “one cannot expect it.”
Manon gave a lift of the head, and laughed.
“What are you laughing at, ma chérie?”
“Oh, nothing.”
“You are thinking that your marriage will not be like these sheets?”