“Eh bien. Vraiment, le galant homme!”
“A gentleman! A noble profession. How does he do it?”
“Ze witch ees laughing! I no explain to zose mocking eyes.”
“Never mind, Lizzette. There is something so charmingly indefinite about the term ‘gentleman’ that I was only trying to discover what particular form this rara avis took.”
“He choose no profession zat I know. He no haf to work.”
“Unlucky mortal! How he will envy us, Lizzette! But tell me about him. Does he resemble his sister?”
“Not ze leetle bit. Il a les eyes like ze summer sky, zay are so blue. Il est so tall like ze young tree. His hair ees ze sunshine of ze autumn, and his smile like ze warmth of ze summer sun.”
“Scorching,” exclaimed Elsie. “How glad I am I shall not come under its gleams; for I would rather cook his dinner than be cooked by that smile!”
“Ze mauvaise Elsie! She make ze fun of eferysing, efen my heart. I haf loved him since many year he climb my knee, and I only speak ze figures de la poesie.”
“My dear Lizzette,” exclaimed Elsie contritely, “I do not make fun of your love, nor of your similes, which really are quite wonderful. Indeed, I never knew you so eloquent before; but this worship of yours for the fair god is so new to me, I did not know that men were entitled to so much.”