“Elle est jolie, ta salle de bain.”
“Oui, elle est jolie comme un amour,” Valentine assented, with a sweet maternal smile.
They talked of the bath-room for a while when they came back to the boudoir; Sylvia was conscious of displaying the politeness with which one descends from the nursery at an afternoon call.
“Enfin,” said Sylvia, “Je file.”
“Tu pars tout de suite de Marseilles?”
“Oui, je pars ce soir.”
She had not really intended to leave Marseilles that evening, but there seemed no reason to stay.
“C’est dommage que tu n’as pas vu Louis.”
“Il s’appelle Louis?”
“Oui, il s’appelle Louis. Il est à Lyon pour ses affaires.”