There was a long, slow pause. At last the old man turned to Nicole. 'That's the end of that,' he said. He smiled at Arvers. 'I understand perfectly,' he said. 'In your place, thinking of my daughter, I should say the same.'
The Frenchman turned to the girl. 'I regret very much that I cannot help you in the way you want,' he said.
She shrugged her shoulders. 'Tant pis,' she said. 'N'y pensee plus.'
He looked uncomfortable. These children,' he said. 'Where are they now?'
They told him that they were waiting in the road, and he walked with them to the gate. It was getting towards evening. The children were playing at the edge of a pond, muddy and rather fractious. There were tear streaks around Sheila's face.
Arvers said awkwardly: 'Would it help you to stay here for the night? I do not think we have beds for so many, but something could perhaps be managed.'
Nicole said warmly: 'You are very kind, monsieur.'
They called the children and introduced them one by one to the horse-dealer; then they went towards the house.
The man called his wife as they approached the door; she came from the kitchen, a stolid peasant woman. He spoke to her, told her that the party were to stay with them for the night, introduced her formally to them. Nicole shepherded the children after her into the kitchen. Arvers turned to Howard.
'You will take a little glass of Pernod, perhaps?' he said.
A little glass of Pernod seemed to the old man to be a very good idea. They went into the salon because the kitchen was full of children. The salon was a stiff and formal room, with gilt-legged furniture upholstered in red plush. On the wall there was a very large oleograph of a white-robed little girl kneeling devoutly in a shaft of light. It was entitled: 'La Premiere Communion.'
Arvers brought the Pernod, with glasses and water, and the two men settled down together. They talked about horses and about country matters. Arvers had been to England once, to Newmarket as a jockey when he was a very young man. They chatted pleasantly enough for a quarter of an hour.
Suddenly Arvers said: 'Your daughter, Monsieur Howard. She will surely find so many foreign children an encumbrance? Are you so certain that they will be welcome in her home?'
The old man said: 'They will be welcome, all right.'
'But how can you possibly know that? Your daughter may find it very inconvenient to have them.'
He shook his head. 'I don't think so. But if that should be so, then she would make arrangements for them for me. She would engage some kind woman to make a home for them, because that is my wish, that they should have a good home in America - away from all this.' He motioned with his hand. 'And there is no difficulty over money, you understand.'
The Frenchman sat silent for a little time, staring into his glass.
'This is a bad time for children, this filthy war,' he said at last. 'And now that France is defeated, it is going to be worse. You English now will starve us, as we starved Germany in 1918.'
Howard was silent.
'I shall not blame your country if you do that. But it will be bad for children here.'
'I am afraid it may be,' said the old man. 'That is why I want to get these children out of it. One must do what one can.'
Arvers shrugged his shoulders. 'There are no children in this house, thank God. Or - only one.' He paused. 'That was a hard case, if you like.'
Howard looked at him enquiringly. The Frenchman poured him out another Pernod. 'A friend in Paris asked me if I had work for a Pole,' he said. 'In December, that was - just at Christmas time. A Polish Jew who knew horses, who had escaped into Rumania and so by sea to Marseilles. Well, you will understand, the mobilisation had taken five of my eight men, and it was very difficult.'
Howard nodded. 'You took him on?'
'Assuredly. Simon Estreicher was his name, and he arrived one day with his son, a boy of ten. There had been a wife, but I will not distress you with that story. She had not escaped the Boche, you understand.'
The old man nodded.
'Well, this man Estreicher worked here till last week, and he worked well. He was quiet and gave no trouble, and the son worked in the stables too. Then last week the Germans came here and took him away.'
Took him away?'
Took him away to Germany, to their forced labour. He was a Pole, you see, m'sieur, and a Jew as well. One could do nothing for him. Some filthy swine in town had told them about him, because they came straight here and asked for him. They put handcuffs on him and took him in a camion with several others.'
'Did they take the son as well?'
'They never asked for him, and he was in the paddock at the time, so I said nothing. One does not help the Germans in their work. But it was very hard on that young boy.'
Howard agreed with him. 'He is with you still, then?'
'Where else could he go? He is useful in the stables, too. But before long I suppose they will find out about him, and come back for him to take him away also.'
Nicole came to them presently, to call them to the kitchen for supper. She had already given the children a meal, and had put them to sleep on beds improvised upstairs by Madame Arvers. They ate together in the kitchen at a long table, together with two men from the farm and a black-haired Jewish-looking boy whom Madame called Marjan, and who said little or nothing during the meal.
The meal over, Arvers escorted Nicole and Howard back to the salon; presently he produted a set of dominoes and proposed a game. Howard settled down to it with him. The horse-dealer played carelessly, his mind on other things.
Presently he returned to the subject that was on his mind. 'Are many children going to America, monsieur? I cannot comprehend how you can be so positive that they will be welcomed. America is very far away. They do not bother about our difficulties here.'
Howard shrugged his shoulders. 'They are a generous people. These children will be quite all right if I can get them there, because my daughter will look after them. But even without her, there would be many people in America willing to provide for them. Americans are like that.'
The other stared at him incredulously. 'It would cost a great deal of money to provide for a child, perhaps for years. One does not do that lightly for a foreign child of which one knows nothing.'
'It's just the sort of thing they do do,' said the old man. They would pour out their money in a cause like that.'
The horse-dealer stared at him keenly and thoughtfully. 'Would they provide for Marjan Estreicher?' he enquired at last. 'No doubt they would not do that for a Jew.'
'I don't think it would make the slightest difference in the case of a child. It certainly would make no difference to my daughter.'
Nicole moved impulsively beside him. 'Monsieur..." she said, but he stopped her with a gesture. She subsided into silence again, watchful.
Howard said steadily: 'I would take him with me, if that is what you want. I would send him to the United States with the other children. But before that, I should want help to get them all away.'
'Jean Henri?'
'Assuredly, Monsieur.'
The other got up, displacing the unheeded game of dominoes with his sleeve. He went and fetched the Pernod, the glasses, and the water, and poured out a drink for Howard. He offered one to the girl, but she refused.