valley could not be seen for the fog, a sure sign of approaching autumn.
We walked on together, waiting for the butcher boy, who was in no haste to return. She told me how her new life delighted her, and asked for news of the Avenue Prochot, and that part of Paris which she no longer visited, even when she went there once a year in a third-class car. She talked of the newest plays, of the latest books. She read all the criticisms in the papers left her. Suddenly she said, "Bye the bye, have you eaten?"
"No."
"You must be hungry!"
"Yes, if there is an inn about here, while waiting for the cart—"
"Every place is closed, but as you will not come to my house, shall I go and get you a piece of bread, a slice of ham and a half bottle of wine? Will that be sufficient?"
"Certainly, but—"
"Wait here for me; I will be back at once."
She disappeared through the shadows of the houses; she ran like a girl of fifteen. I followed in the same direction, to spare her as much as I could of the walk back. She reappeared at the end of ten minutes, bringing my meal in a small basket, such as children use to carry their provisions for the day at school. She took from the basket a small loaf of bread cut in two, a slice of ham in the middle; the bread was stale, the ham dry and very salty. Truly it was not good; I would not tell her so, but gnawed with my teeth, not without repeated effort, into the enormous sandwich, while she poured out wine. About the middle of my meal I had enough. I drank one swallow of the wine, and did not know how to acknowledge without wounding her that my hunger was gone; I feared she would guess why. Half of the bread I still held in my hand.
"Well," said she, "why don't you eat?"
