He smiled his ignorance and shook his head.
"Dass one fine gen'leman," she repeated. "Mo pa'lé Anglé," she added with a chuckle.
"You know him?"
"Oh! yass, sah; Mawse Honoré knows me, yass. All de gen'lemens knows me. I sell de calas; mawnin's sell calas, evenin's sell zinzer-cake. You know me" (a fact which Joseph had all along been aware of). "Dat me w'at pass in rue Royale ev'y mawnin' holl'in' 'Bé calas touts chauds,' an' singin'; don't you know?"
The enthusiasm of an artist overcame any timidity she might have been supposed to possess, and, waiving the formality of an invitation, she began, to Frowenfeld's consternation, to sing, in a loud, nasal voice.
But the performance, long familiar, attracted no public attention, and he for whose special delight it was intended had taken an attitude of disclaimer and was again contemplating the quiet groups of the Place d'Armes and the pleasant hurry of the levee road.
"Don't you know?" persisted the woman. "Yass, sah, dass me; I's Clemence."
But Frowenfeld was looking another way.
"You know my boy," suddenly said she.
Frowenfeld looked at her.