"You see, when I want a cup of tea, there!"
She removed the ornamental top with a flourish. Under it was a single griddle. Mlle. Fouchette regarded the domestic machine with great complacency, her blonde head prettily cocked on one side.
"It certainly is convenient," said Jean, feeling that some comment was demanded of him.
"When I cook I put it in the chimney."
"But you have other fire in winter?"
"Fire? Never! Wood is too dear,—and then, really, one goes to the cafés every night, and to the studios every day. They roast one at the studios, because of the models."
"Oh!"
"Yes, monsieur," she went on. "Now, Poupon is most generally a warm-hearted little thing, and then one can go to bed, in a pinch. And I can have tea, or coffee, or hot wine. Do you like hot wine, monsieur? With a bit of lemon it is very good. And look here," she continued rapidly, without giving him time to say anything, "it is quite snug and comfortable, is it not?"
She had thrown open a door next to the mantel and proudly exploited a cupboard containing various bits of china and glassware. The cupboard was in the wall and closed flush with the latter, the door being covered with the same paper. There were a few cooking utensils below.
"Yes, to be sure, mademoiselle, it is all very nice indeed," said he, "but—but have you got a bit to eat anywhere about the place?"