“There is nothing that does not matter. And—you want your breakfast. Shall we have it up here in the sunlight?”
Brent’s chin swung round. He stared.
“Just as you please.”
She got up.
“I must light the stove. Or perhaps you are more clever at it than I am. Supposing I wash those plates. I can find some more boxes and make a table and seats here. And I have a packet of coffee in my bag.”
“Mon Dieu!” said Brent. “Life is good. I’ll go and light that stove.”
He went about the work like a thoroughly practical man, trying to limit the day’s outlook to that one word “breakfast,” and refusing to see anything sentimental in lighting a stove and boiling a saucepan of water.
“Anyhow, I shall start the day with a meal,” he said to himself; “I wonder what she will make of this place when I have gone?”
But Manon—the woman—kept intruding herself upon Brent’s prosaic philosophy.
“Mon ami—I want more water, and there is no bucket.”