Having discarded his cap and tossed it across upon a chair, revealing his high, square forehead, he threw off his coat, and in his shirt-sleeves sat down at the table, exclaiming:
“Now, then, girl, I hope you’ve got something eatable to-night. I shall want something to keep me going before to-morrow morning.”
“Why?” asked the girl, putting down the tureen of pot-au-feu and seating herself.
“I’ve got a little business on, that’s all,” he snapped, taking his soup, commencing it, and grumbling that it was badly made.
“I do my best, Ralph,” she protested. “You know I’ve had no money for three days now.”
“And if you had, the soup would be just the same,” he declared. “You may be all very well to make hats, but you’re no good as a man’s wife. I’ve discovered that long ago. I—”
His words were interrupted by a loud rap at the door.
He started in alarm, but the next second sprang up and welcomed his visitor warmly.
“You, Adolphe, old fellow!” he cried. “Why, you gave me quite a start. Come in and have a bit of dinner. I want to talk to you. I was coming to find you as soon as I’d finished. Jean, another plate for Adolphe.”
So the man who had entered laid his hard-felt hat on the sideboard, as was his habit, and sat down at the table in the chair that his friend had placed for him.