“I don’t like babies,” said Valentine.
“Vraiment on est très-bien ici,” said Sylvia.
She felt that by flinging an accentuated compliment to the room Valentine might feel her lover was included in the approbation.
“And it’s mine,” said Valentine, complacently. “He bought it for me. C’est pour la vie.”
Passion might be quenched in the slough of habitude; love’s pinions might molt like any farm-yard hen’s. What was that, when the apartment was hers for life?
“How many rooms have you?” Sylvia asked.
“Besides this one I have a bedroom, a dining-room, a kitchen, and a bath-room. Would you like to see the bath-room?”
When Valentine asked the last question she was transformed; a latent exultation flamed out from her immobility.
“I should love to see the bath-room,” said Sylvia. “I think bath-rooms are often the most interesting part of a house.”
“But this is an exceptional bath-room. It cost two thousand francs to install.”