“The flue is different.”
“Do you think so?”
“Yes, Zoe. Ours had a head of Jupiter Trophonius upon it. In those far-off days it was the custom of the stove-makers in the Cour du Dragon to decorate porcelain flues with a head of Jupiter Trophonius.”
“Are you sure?”
“Sure. Don’t you remember a crowned head with a pointed beard?”
“No.”
“Oh, well that is not surprising; you were always indifferent to the shapes of things. You don’t look at anything.”
“I am more observant than you, my poor Lucien; it is you who never notice things. The other day, when Pauline had waved her hair, you didn’t notice it. If it were not for me——”
She did not finish her sentence, but peered about the empty room with her green eyes and sharp nose.
“Over there in that corner near the window, Mademoiselle Verpie used to sit with her feet on her foot-warmer. Saturday was the sewing-woman’s day, and Mademoiselle Verpie never missed a Saturday.”