He smote his breast.
"Do you wish to put it in the window?"
"Yes, seh."
"For sale?"
M. Raoul Innerarity hesitated a moment before replying:
"'Sieur Frowenfel', I think it is a foolishness to be too proud, eh? I want you to say, 'My frien', 'Sieur Innerarity, never care to sell anything; 'tis for egs-hibby-shun'; mais--when somebody look at it, so," the artist cast upon his work a look of languishing covetousness, "'you say, foudre tonnerre! what de dev'!--I take dat ris-pon-sibble-ty--you can have her for two hun'red fifty dollah!' Better not be too proud, eh, 'Sieur Frowenfel'?"
"No, sir," said Joseph, proceeding to place it in the window, his new friend following him about spanielwise; "but you had better let me say plainly that it is for sale."
"Oh--I don't care--mais--my rillation' will never forgive me! Mais--go-ahead-I-don't-care! 'T is for sale."
"'Sieur Frowenfel'," he resumed, as they came away from the window, "one week ago"--he held up one finger--"what I was doing? Makin' bill of ladin', my faith!--for my cousin Honoré! an' now, I ham a hartis'! So soon I foun' dat, I say, 'Cousin Honoré,'"--the eloquent speaker lifted his foot and administered to the empty air a soft, polite kick--"I never goin' to do anoder lick o' work so long I live; adieu!"
He lifted a kiss from his lips and wafted it in the direction of his cousin's office.