"Hungry as a wolf!" he cried, with a sweep of his curtains.
"Come, then!" And the blonde head disappeared.
"This is living," said the young man to himself as he was dressing,—he had never enjoyed such comfort away from home,—"the little one is a happy combination of housekeeper and cook as well as guide, philosopher, and friend. Seems to like it, too."
He noted that the little breakfast-table was arranged with neat coquetry and set off with a bunch of red roses that filled the air with their exquisite fragrance. Next he saw that Mlle. Fouchette herself seemed uncommonly charming. She not only had her hair done up, but her best dress on instead of the customary dilapidated morning wrapper.
His quick, artistic eye took in all of these details at a glance, falling finally upon the three marguerites at her throat.
"My faith! you are quite—but, say, little one, what's up?"
"I'm up," she laughingly answered, "and I've been up these two hours, Monsieur Lazybones."
"But——"
"Yes, and I've been down in Rue Royer-Collard and paid our milk bill,—deux francs cinquante, and gave that épicière a piece of my mind for giving me omelette eggs for eggs à la coque; for, while the eggs were not bad, one wants what one pays for, and I'm going to have it, so she gave me an extra egg this time. How do you like these?"
Without waiting for him to answer she added, "They are vingt-cinq centimes for two, six at soixante-quinze centimes, and one extra, which is trois francs vingt-cinq; and I got another pound of that coffee in Boulevard St. Michel; but it is dreadful dear, mon ami,—only you will have good coffee, n'est-ce pas? But three-forty a pound! Which makes six francs soixante-cinq."