Cartouche spoke, took a pride in speaking, English like a native. Molly’s “Frenchings” were as sweet an imperfection as her lips.
She laughed, busy at the table preparing his breakfast, coffee and chocolate mixed in a little glass and garnished with a number of tiny rolls like pipe-stems.
“And I never hear yours,” she said, “without thinking of a silly fellow.”
She took a chair by him while he ate and drank. He did it all daintily; but she would have watched him with as much delight if he had guzzled like a hog. It is all one to a woman whether her baby is nice or gluttonous. But I have known a man turn disgusted from a ravenous infant.
Cartouche sat preoccupied a long time, nibbling his rusks. Suddenly he looked up, dark and troubled.
“Why have you such a sweet face, ma mie?” he said. “I wish I had never brought a blush to it.”
She started up, and went to the table again, affecting business there. Then she turned, and her lashes were winking.
“Let that flea stick in the wall,” she said. “I’d rather you had its blushes than its frowns.”
Her under lip was trembling a little, as she came again and knelt at his feet.
“What is it, Cherry?” she said, looking wistfully into his face. “There’s something, I know—something different, since you—since you—. Is it anything to do with that fellow you brought here last night?”