"That you are famous, monsieur. I wish we had remained at home."
"So do I, petite," he said.
"Let us take our coffee there, at least," she suggested.
"Good!" he cried,—"by all means!"
They were soon installed in his small salon, where she quickly spread a table of dainty china. She had agreed with him in keeping his pictures, bric-à-brac, and prettiest dishes.
"Ah! they are so sweet!" she would say. "Now here is a lovely blue cup for you. I take the dear little pink one,—it's as delicate as an egg-shell,—Sèvres, surely! And here's some of my coffee. It is not as good, perhaps, as you are used to, but——"
"Oh, I'm used to anything,—except being stared at and mobbed by a lot of curious chaps as if I were a calf with six legs, or had run off with the President's daughter, or——"
"Or committed murder, eh?" said she. "People always stare at murderers, do they not? Still, it isn't really bad, you know," abruptly returning to the coffee, "with a petit verre and cigarette."
"Au contraire," he retorted, gayly.
And over their coffee and cognac and cigarettes, surrounded by his tasteful belongings, shut in by the heavy damask hangings, under the graceful wreaths of smoke, they formed a very pretty picture. He, robust, dark, manly; she, frail, delicate, blonde, and distinctively feminine.