“Will you let me try?”

“I tell you he won’t come.”

“In that case there’s no harm in trying.  If I can persuade him, will you promise to be civil to him, and not try to break his head?”

“He won’t come, I tell you.”

“And I say he may.”

“And you’ll nag and nag till you get your own way, I suppose.”

“Of course.  What’s the use of a woman’s tongue if she can’t get her own way with it?  Will you promise to behave properly if he comes?”

“I’ll behave if he behaves,” he growled sulkily.  “But we’ll neither of us get the chance.  He won’t come.”

“Eh bien, we’ll see!”

And when Gard came up to dinner next day, she was leaning over the gate waiting for him, very tastefully dressed according to her lights, and with an engaging smile on her face.

“Dites donc, Monsieur Gard,” she said pleasantly.  “Our little Nannon was telling me you regretted having to live so far away.  Why should you not come back and occupy your old room?  It is lying empty there, and I would do my very best to make you comfortable, and you would be close to your friends all the time then, instead of having to go across that frightful Coupee.”

“It is very kind of you, madame,” and he stared back at her in much surprise, and found himself wondering what on earth had made her marry such a man as Tom Hamon.  For she was undeniably good-looking and had all a Frenchwoman’s knack of making the very best of all she had—­abundant black hair, very neatly twisted up at the back of her head; white teeth and full red lips; straight, well-developed figure very neatly dressed; and large black eyes which looked capable of so many things, that they found it difficult to settle for any length of time to any one expression.

“It is very kind of you, madame,” said Gard, “but—­” and he stood looking at her and hesitating how to put it.

“You mean about Tom,” she laughed.  “But that is all past.  I have spoken to him, and he promises to behave himself quite properly if you will come.  Voila!”

Just for a moment the possibilities of the suggestion caught his mind.  He would be near Nance all the time.  He would be saved much tiresome walking to and fro.  Especially he would be saved that passage of the Coupee, which at night, even with a lantern, was not a thing one easily got accustomed to, and on stormy nights was enough to make one’s hair fly.  Then this woman was very different from his present landlady, and would probably, he thought, have different notions of comfort.

The quick black eyes caught something of what was in him:  and he, as suddenly, caught something of what lurked, consciously or unconsciously, in them, and a little tremor of repugnance shook his heart and braced him back to reason.

He shook his head.  “It would not do, madame.  He and I would never get on together, no matter how hard we tried.  I thank you for the offer all the same,” and he made as though to pass her.