"A pretty—er—a what?"
"Salad-bowl."
"Oh, dame! I was not thinking of the salad-bowl."
"Something more serious?"
"Yes. Don't go to-morrow, Monsieur Jean!"
Her voice was earnest, but sunk to a whisper. He regarded her with astonishment.
"Don't go, Monsieur Jean!" she repeated. "Have nothing to do with them! There will be two thousand hired roughs from La Villette, the killers from the abattoirs, and——" She stopped short.
"How now, mon enfant? How——"
But she had clapped her small hand over his mouth in a half-vexed, half-frightened way, with a definite gesture towards the next room.
"Have a care, monsieur," she whispered in his ear, then laughingly resumed her bantering tone. "How do you like my salad? Is it not capital?"