“Is he like Duclosse the mealman, or Lajeunesse the blacksmith, or Garotte the lime-burner-and the rest?”
“Of course not,” she answered.
“Is he like the Cure, or Monsieur De la Riviere, or Monsieur Garon, or Monsieur Medallion?”
“He’s different,” she said hesitatingly.
“Better or worse?”
“More—more”—she did not know what to say—“more interesting.”
“Is he like the Judge Honourable that comes from Montreal, or the grand Governor, or the General that travels with the Governor?”
“Yes, but different—more—more like us in some things, like them in others, and more—splendid. He speaks such fine things! You mind the other night at the Louis Quinze. He is like—”
She paused. “What is he like?” Parpon asked slyly, enjoying her difficulty.
“Ah, I know,” she answered; “he is a little like Madame the American who came two years ago. There is something—something!”