She dipped her hand into the water, skimming the surface, making a thin, transparent film like a sheet of glass, which made a soft plashing along the side of the boat.
When they were in the restaurant, she took it on herself to speak, and ordered dinner, fried fish, a chicken, and salad; then she led us on toward the isle, which she knew perfectly.
After this, she was gay, romping, and even rather tantalizing.
Until dessert, no question of love arose. I had treated them to champagne, and Pere Piquedent was tipsy. Herself slightly the worse, she called out to him:
“Monsieur Piquenez.”
He said abruptly:
“Mademoiselle, Monsieur Raoul has communicated my sentiments to you.”
She became as serious as a judge.
“Yes, monsieur.”
“What is your reply?”