"Oh, many do more than I. Babette's eldest daughter is only twelve, and
she does much more, because she has all the children to look after; and
they are very, very poor; they often have nothing but a stew of nettles
and perhaps a few snails, days together."

"That is lean, bare, ugly, gruesome poverty; there is plenty of that
everywhere. But you, Bébée--you are an idyll."

Bébée looked across the hut and smiled, and broke her thread. She did not
know what he meant, but if she were anything that pleased him, it was
well.

"Who were those beautiful women?" she said suddenly, the color mounting
into her cheeks.

"What women, my dear?"

"Those I saw at the window with you, the other night--they had jewels."

"Oh!--women, tiresome enough. If I had seen you, I would have dropped you
some fruit. Poor little Bébée! Did you go by, and I never knew?"

"You were laughing--"

"Was I?"

"Yes, and they _were_ beautiful."

"In their own eyes; not in mine."