"Monsieur says that the river is very pretty about Courbevoie, ma tante," replied Mademoiselle Marie, raising her voice.
"Ah! ah! and what else?"
"Monsieur is a painter."
"A painter? Ah, dear me! it's an unhealthy occupation. My poor brother Pierre might have been alive to this day if he had taken to any other line of business! You must take great care of your lungs, young man. You look delicate."
Müller laughed, shook his head, and declared at the top of his voice that he had never had a day's illness in his life.
Here the pretty niece again interposed.
"Ah, Monsieur," she said, "my aunt does not understand....My--my uncle Pierre was a house-painter."
"A very respectable occupation, Mademoiselle," replied Müller, politely. "For my own part, I would sooner paint the insides of some houses than the outsides of some people."
At this moment the train began to slacken pace, and the steam was let off with a demoniac shriek.
"Tiens, mon enfant," said the old lady, turning towards her niece with affectionate anxiety. "I hope you have not taken cold."