with himself whether he should ask her to stay to breakfast. He ought
not to let her go like that. On the other hand, if she did stay, he
would never get done; it would mean a loss of his whole morning.
Without deciding anything, as soon as he had lighted his spirit lamp,
he washed his saucepan and began to make some chocolate. He thought it
more _distingue_, feeling rather ashamed of his vermicelli, which he
mixed with bread and soused with oil as people do in the South of
France. However, he was still breaking the chocolate into bits, when
he uttered a cry of surprise, 'What, already?'

It was Christine, who had pushed back the screen, and who appeared
looking neat and correct in her black dress, duly laced and buttoned
up, equipped, as it were, in a twinkle. Her rosy face did not even
show traces of the water, her thick hair was twisted in a knot at the
back of her head, not a single lock out of place. And Claude remained
open-mouthed before that miracle of quickness, that proof of feminine
skill in dressing well and promptly.

'The deuce, if you go about everything in that way!' said he.

He found her taller and handsomer than he had fancied. But what struck
him most was her look of quiet decision. She was evidently no longer
afraid of him. It seemed as though she had re-donned her armour and
become an amazon again. She smiled and looked him straight in the
face. Whereupon he said what he was still reluctant to say:

'You'll breakfast with me, won't you?'

But she refused the offer. 'No, thank you. I am going to the station,
where my trunk must have arrived by now, and then I shall drive to