“If appearances are to be trusted,” said I, “you may flatter yourself that, for the moment at least, you are M. Cabarus’s golden goat.”
She shrugged her shoulders, with a little impatient “allons donc!” then turned suddenly and looked at me.
“And what is yours, Felix?”
“My what? My present ideal?”
“Yes.”
“Bouille-abaisse,” I answered promptly.
“What is that?” she demanded.
“It is a Provençal dish. I came here to eat it.”
“Will you not be serious, please?”
“It is perfectly true, Fifine. I shall not be happy till you have tasted it.”