She sat with her head slightly on one side, exquisitely solemn, frowning.
“The factory! There used to be sand at the factory. And bricks—they are everywhere. But lime? O mon Dieu!”
“We’ll manage somehow,” said Brent, “even if I have to use mud and straw. Plenty of straw in the old palliasses lying about. What next?”
“No doors.”
“A carpenter’s job.”
“No windows.”
“H’m,” said Brent reflectively, “I wonder if there is a dump anywhere about here. Oiled linen? Yes. I don’t mind what I thieve.”
She laughed.
“What morals! But—I like it. Oh, what an adventure—what life!”
Brent was making notes, and Manon pulled out her watch; its hands stood at five minutes past twelve. There was dinner to be remembered; she would be responsible for these household necessities, while her man worked, but Manon was too excited to think of eating. She wanted to explore Beaucourt, to discover all the wonderful things they needed, stacks of timber, mountains of corrugated iron. The iron would look horrible after the old red-brown tiles, but Manon reminded herself that it could be painted and that it would be the first whole roof in Beaucourt.