Brent did an absurd thing. He took off his cap to it—uncovered his head.
“Home,” he said; “how queer!”
His footsteps seemed to make a great noise in the silent village as he walked back through the still, cold night—but Brent did not feel the cold, for his heart was warm in him. Manon was whistling, whistling like a blackbird; the sound came out of the cellar, a cellar that was full of the glow from the stove.
She heard his footsteps up above and ran to the steps.
“It is you?”
“Yes.”
“Come down. Supper is ready.”
He hesitated at the head of the stairs, a man grown suddenly shy.
“May I? It is your cellar.”
“Do not be foolish,” she said; “I have cooked you a hot supper.”