She only dimly heard the words he spoke.
"You are a little peasant," said Jeannot roughly, as he paused at the gate.

"It is all you can do to get your bread.

You have no one to stand between you and hunger.

How will it be with you when the slug gets your roses, and the snail your carnations, and your hens die of damp, and your lace is all wove awry, because your head runs on reading and folly, and you are spoilt for all simple pleasures and for all honest work ?" She smiled, still looking up at the moon, with the dropping ivy touching her hair.
"You are cross, dear Jeannot.

Good night." A moment afterwards the little rickety door was shut, and the rusty bolt drawn within it; Jeannot stood in the cool summer night all alone, and knew how stupid he had been in his wrath.
He leaned on the gate a minute; then crossed the garden as softly as his wooden shoes would let him.