“But what?”
“Be quiet, please! If you twist that way you will spill the broth. If I wished—yes, perhaps.”
“Solange!”
De Launay lay still a moment, then:
“Solange!”
“Monsieur?”
“Why don’t you wish it?”
She stole a glance at him and then turned away. His face was damp and the fever was glittering in his eyes but behind the fever was a great hunger.
“Husbands,” said Solange, “are not plentiful, monsieur.”