She went on hurriedly.
'I have the money for the fare, monsieur.
And Rose is a good little girl - oh, she is so good, that one.
She would not trouble monsieur, no more than a little mouse.'
Every instinct warned the old man that he must kill this thing stone dead - quick.
Though he would not admit it to himself, he knew that to win through to England would take all his energy, burdened as he was with two little children.
In the background of his mind lurked fear, fear of impending, absolute disaster.
He stared down at the tear-stained, anxious face, and temporised.
'But why do you want to send her to England?' he asked.
'The war will never come to Dijon.
She will be quite safe here.'
The woman said: 'I have no money, monsieur.
Her father is in England, but he cannot send money to us here.
It is better that she should go to England, now.'
He said: 'Perhaps I could arrange to help him to send money.'
There was still a substantial balance on his letter of credit.
'You do not want her to leave you, do you?'
She said: 'Monsieur, things are happening in France that you English do not understand.
We are afraid of what is coming, all of us...'
They were silent for a moment.
'I know things are very bad,' he said quietly.
'It may be difficult for me, an Englishman, to get to England now.
I don't think it will be - but it may.
Suppose I could not get her out of the country for some reason?'
She wrinkled her face up and lifted the corner of her apron to her eyes.
'In England she would be safe,' she muttered.
'I do not know what is going to happen to us, here in Dijon.
I am afraid.' She began to cry again.
He patted her awkwardly on the shoulder.
There,' he said. 'I will think about it this afternoon.
It's not a thing to be decided in a hurry.'
He made his escape from her, and went down to the street.
Once out in the street, he quite forgot what he had come for.
Absent-mindedly he walked towards the centre of the town, wondering how he could evade the charge of another child.
Presently, he sat down in a cafe and ordered himself a bock.
It was not that he had anything against la petite Rose.
On the contrary, he liked the child; she was a quiet, motherly little thing.
But she would be another drag on him at a time when he knew with every instinct of his being that he could tolerate no further drags.
He knew himself to be in danger.
The sweep and drive of Germany down in France was no secret any longer; it was like the rush through Belgium had been in the last war, only more intense.
If he delayed a moment longer than was necessary, he would be engulfed by the invading army.
For an Englishman that meant a concentration camp, for a man of his age that probably meant death.
From his chair on the pavement he stared out on the quiet, sunlit Place.
Bad times were coming for the French; he and his children must get out of it, damn quick.
If the Germans conquered they would bring with them, inevitably, their trail of pillage and starvation, gradually mounting towards anarchy as they faced the inevitable defeat.
He must not let his children be caught in that.
Children in France, if she were beaten down, would have a terrible time.
It was bad luck on little Rose.
He had nothing against her; indeed, she had helped him in the last two days.
He would have found it difficult to manage Sheila if Rose had not been there.