“Eh bien, peut-être, you find her to-morrow, hein! If not, zere are ozers.” She waved her small gloved hands in a circle, bringing them back to include herself. She looked a good little soul, standing there so bravely disguising her weariness.
“Tired?”
“It ees nozing.”
“Won’t you join me?”
Immediately we were in sympathy. She owned me with a playfulness which had no hint of indelicacy. Drawing off her gloves, she rested her chin on her knitted fingers and regarded me laughingly with her world-wise eyes. She was scarcely more than half my years, I suppose.
“Zere are ozers,” she repeated.
“Not for me,” I said; “not to-night.”
“Dieu! You are funny, my friend. You lofe like zat?” The waiter hovered nearer, flirting his napkin across the marble-tables.
I beckoned; he dashed up like a hen to which I had scattered grain.
“Croûte au pot?”