The old man said: 'My daughter has one child of her own, and now hopes for another.
She is very fond of all children.
They will be safe with her.'
Arvers got up suddenly from the desk.
'It is impossible,' he said.
'If Jean Henri should put his hand to this he would be in great danger.
The Germans would shoot him, beyond all doubt.
You have no right to suggest such a thing.'
He paused, and then he said: 'I have my daughter to consider.'
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.