“Voilà! That is a soup,” roared the editor.
“My dear child,” put in the Count, bowing to Lucille, “I have known intimately for years the best purées of the Maison Dorée; those were soups. This is a masterpiece! a dream!! a soup to comfort the soul!!!”
“Ah! you dear old boy,” cried Lucille, patting him on the cheek, “you are always so appreciative;” and she added, in a whisper, to the rest: “Marie is enchanted.”
IN A BOULEVARD CAFÉ
Over the coffee and liqueur they often discussed in open debate such serious topics as whether or not marriage was a failure; the finer points of fidelity; were women more faithful in their love than men? had luxury become a necessity? what really constitutes happiness in life; were it not better to enjoy the present, since one could not help the past or control the future? etc., etc.
Such discussions as these would last until the hour grew late and the hands of the clock ticking over the bar crawled to another day.
Then the shutters were put up, the company dispersed, and Lucille’s waiting brougham would drive her home.
But it was the Count who saw her safely within her carriage, stowed the sleepy dachshunds in their warm corner under the seat, and raised his hat as Lucille drove away.
Some years have passed since the old days when “The Bar of the Cricket” held such comrades as these.