Paul had found his pipe; he was filling it and staring at the floor, when something yellow whisked into the kitchen. It was Philosophe, Philosophe who had been missing all day and who now floated in with an air of having been round the corner. The dog yapped and pawed at Manon’s apron.
“A lot of use you have been to us,” said Brent.
But Manon kissed Philosophe’s head and then pushed him away.
“I could forgive anything to-night.”
“Even—that?”
She pressed her hands to her eyes.
“No, not that. What are we to do now?”
They heard a sudden sound in the silence, a queer sound that startled both of them. Philosophe was l*****g Bibi’s face.
Brent stood up with a tightening of the mouth and limbs.
“Come here.”
The dog sneaked out from behind the table and went and lay down by the stove.
B
