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 knew would have upon her face that aggrieved, martyr-like expression that he found always so peculiarly irritating. As for the dinner, the dinner could go to the dog—the only creature it was fit for. . . . That coffee still smelt very good as he passed the store. What if he stopped and bought some? A little of it for breakfast, now, mixed with plenty of good milk—the milk of this country was all right, if it could be flavoured with coffee. Ah, but then, the coffee must be made, not murdered! It was no use buying any to take home to Mrs. Brown.

There were two men busy by the fence of old Bossu’s house as he came past. They were putting up a sign—“To Let,” it said, quite plainly. Young Bossu did not mean to pull the old place down just yet, then—Ah! . . . Philippe stood suddenly stock-still, staring at the green shutters but not seeing them at all, in the full radiance of the idea that, ever since Mrs. Métrailleur’s remarks, had been slowly dawning on his mind. He, Philippe, was not poor; the old house was not large; Bossu fils could not demand an extortionate rent, and, in the little paddock at the back, Nanette could keep her cow. Such were the simple, practical thoughts that were at work, altering his whole world for him. The old woman, the old house, the old man—why not convert them all, by associating them in one companionship, into a little remnant of departed Home?

No rash idea of marriage was in old Philippe’s mind. Nanette, the withered everyday housewife, could never be a rival to Ninon, the ideal, the ever-young—neither would she, in her peasant meekness,