Valentine led the way to the admired chamber, to which a complicated arrangement of shining pipes gave an orchestral appearance. Valentine flitted from tap to tap. Aretino himself could scarcely have imagined more methods of sprinkling water upon the human body.
“And these pipes are for warming the towels,” she explained. It was a relief to find pipes that led a comparatively passive existence amid such a convolution of fountainous activity.
“I thought while I was about it that I would have the tiles laid right up to the ceiling,” Valentine went on, pensively. “And you see, the ceiling is made of looking-glass. When the water is very hot, ça fait drôle, tu sais, on ne se voit plus.”
It was the first time she had used the second person singular; the bath-room had created in Valentine something that almost resembled humanity.
“Yes,” Sylvia agreed. “I suppose that is the best way of making the ceiling useful.”
“C’est pour la vie,” Valentine contentedly sighed.
“But if he were to marry?” Sylvia ventured.
“It would make no difference,” Valentine answered. “I have saved money and with a bath-room like this one can always get a good rent. Everything in the apartment is mine, and the apartment is mine, too.”
“Alors, tu es contente?” said Sylvia.
“Oui, je suis contente,” said Valentine.