“Transport,” he said; “here it is. The very thing for carting our iron and timber.”
Her delight was as great as his, and therein lay the secret of this little woman’s charm. She reacted with the freshness and buoyancy of a healthy child, and her temperamental and French expressiveness made her an exquisite playmate.
“But—it is a triumph! Yes, the doctor’s old gig, with the wheels that made you think the sun was shining.”
“I’m borrowing it,” said Brent with a wink; “I’m borrowing everything.”
She showed him her picture.
“I shall take care of this for Madame Vitry. It was so sad to see it hanging there. Now then, you between the shafts pull, and I’ll push.”
The gig went up the hill with great briskness between the laughing and chattering pair of them. They ran it into the yard, and examined it there with much pride, Brent explaining how he could load the timber and iron from the huts, and run his improvised truck down the slightly sloping Rue de Rosières.
Manon had had triumphs of her own. She took Paul into the house with a dramatic gesture.
“Voilà!”
He saw a couple of chairs, one of them the arm-chair from the école, a real table, and upon it a collection of glass and china. There were cups, plates, dishes, tumblers, wine-glasses, forks, spoons, even a couple of rusty knives. A china candlestick was included. On the floor stood a big earthenware bread-pan, a kettle, and an old tin bath.