"Vos beaux yeux, Mademoiselle," he creaked gallantly, "and to your good fortune, Monsieur Philidor."
"To your roses, Monsieur Guégou," replied Philidor. "In the whole of the Eure et Oise there are not such roses. To your omelette, Madame. In the country there is not such another!"
With these compliments and in others like them the minutes passed quickly. Yvonne's eyes avoided Philidor's, though he frequently sought them. Nor was he dismayed when, in response to Madame Guégou's interest query as to when they would marry, Yvonne shrugged her shoulders indifferently and sighed.
"Oh, I do not know, Madame. Often I think—never. One marries and that is the end of romance. One lover—pouf! When one may have many."
She tossed her chin in the direction of Philidor, who looked at her over his chicken bone.
"If one has but one lover," she went on, "he must have all the virtues of the many and none of the faults. He must sing when we are gay, weep when we are sad, and make love to us while doing either. Enfin, he must be what no man is. Voyez-vous?" and she pointed the finger of scorn at Philidor. "He eats just as you or I."
Madame Guégou laughed.
"What you require is no man at all. Mademoiselle Yvonne, but a saint."
"Perhaps," she finished, yawning. "But, bien entendu, I'm in no hurry."
When the dinner was finished, Yvonne helped Mère Guégou with the dishes, and when that was done went straightway to her room, with no other word for Philidor than a "Bon soir," and a nod of the head.