"But that is naught for thee, my pigeon—and now, enough of this talk—the pot-au-feu will be boiling over."
She wore a great air of finality now and would have risen but for Rose Marie's clinging arms.
"Maman darling," pleaded the girl.
"Nonsense!" retorted Mme. Legros decisively.
"One little, tiny, very, very short quarter of an hour."
"Nonsense."
"I want so to know what he would say when we are alone—he could not sit before me mute as a carp, and stiff as papa's wooden measure. I want to hear his merry voice myself. I want to see—what he looks like—when he laughs."
"Nonsense," reiterated maman for the third time.
But even as she spoke the word, she looked down upon the beautiful upturned head, the glowing eyes, the quivering lips parted in earnest pleading, and like the thistle-down in a gale, which she herself had quoted, the worthy old woman's resistance fell away.
"Of a truth thou'rt a rogue," she said more gently.