Is he a decent sort of fellow in other ways? I suppose, anyhow,
if he has really taken a fancy to my little shanty, I shall have
to give it up."

Then, as it seemed to him, for the first time real life leaped into
her face. She leaned towards him. Her tone was half commanding,
half imploring, her manner entirely confidential.

"Don't!" she begged. "It is yours. Claim it. Live in it. Do
anything you like with it, but take it away from Mr. Fentolin!"

Hamel was speechless. He sat a little forward, a hand on either
knee, his mouth ungracefully open, an expression of blank and
utter bewilderment in his face. For the first time he began to
have vague doubts concerning this young lady. Everything about
her had been so strange: her quiet entrance into the carriage,
her unusual manner of talking, and finally this last passionate,
inexplicable appeal.

"I am afraid," he said at last, "I don't quite understand. You
say the poor fellow has taken a fancy to the place and likes being
there. Well, it isn't much of a catch for me, anyway. I'm rather
a wanderer, and I dare say I shan't be back in these parts again
for years. Why shouldn't I let him have it if he wants it? It's
no loss to me. I'm not a painter, you know, like my father."

She seemed on the point of making a further appeal. Her lips, even,
were parted, her head a little thrown back. And then she stopped.
She said nothing. The silence lasted so long that he became almost
embarrassed.