He protested, voluble and shamefaced. She would not listen. Out of mere wilfulness she now selected the most expensive item of the menu—a partridge stewed in wine. He seemed like to cry; but she persisted and gained her point.
“We shall be ruined!” he cried, inconsistently enough. “For a month after our return we shall have to live on bread and boiled nettles.”
“In December, mon oncle? Then I am imperious for white wine of Mont Raché.”
The old fellow almost shrieked.
“Carinne! Eight francs the bottle! Consider, my niece. I shall die in Sainte Pélagie!”
The new-comer turned to me with a grin.
“Didst ever hear the like?” said he.
I nodded gravely. I was not then all inured to impertinence.
“He lacks the art of selection,” I said coldly, thinking of Michau.
He showed himself good-humouredly conscious of my manner. He leaned towards me and murmured carelessly—