After working at the huts till ten o’clock, Brent walked back to the Café de la Victoire by the light of the moon. He was tired, dead tired, but his weariness was full of a pleasant sense of physical satisfaction; he had done the best day’s work in his life, and if his hands were sore and his back one huge ache, what did it matter?
Manon had gone home earlier to light the stove. She heard Brent’s footsteps on the pavé, and ran out to meet him.
“Partner, I’m tired.”
He laughed over it, for he was a little exultant.
“I never thought that we could do it, rip off a hundred sheets and get them carted and stacked here. I have knocked half the weather boarding off that hut.”
Manon enveloped him in a soft atmosphere of sympathy, applause, gratitude.
“Go down and sit by the fire. The water is
