"No," said Aldo, with downcast eyelids. He knew something about viatiques, but he would not let this knowledge spoil their lunch. After all, the luncheon cost twelve francs. It must not be wasted.
"Did you see her?" asked Nancy, tying a table-napkin round the doll's neck at Anne-Marie's request.
"Whom?" said Aldo, with his mouth full.
"The—the prairie-chicken," said Nancy, to make him feel that he was quite forgiven.
"Oh yes; I saw her," said Aldo.
Nancy put down her knife and fork, and felt faint. "Well?"
Aldo cleared his throat, took a sip of wine, and said, "She is an old beast."
There was a pause, then he continued: "I made a clean breast of it. I told her who you were, and about Anne-Marie; and when I had finished she called me a—a—oh, some vulgar American name, and off she walked."
Nancy reached across the table and patted his hand. "That's right, Aldo."
"I told you," he said, nodding his head, "that that kind of woman cannot stand the idea of a fellow having a family."