“And you said——”
“Oh, I said ‘Admirably’; it was the best thing to say. I promised to call again and inform her of your progress; she entreated me to implore you not to discard your woolen vests. There was also a message about an overcoat, which I have forgotten; it was either to wear one or not wear one, but I cannot tell which: you know a mother’s ways. Toto, I feel hungry; have you anything to eat in this atelier of yours?”
Toto got together some bread and butter, half a cold tongue, and a bottle of wine. Gaillard turned up his nose at the feast provided for him, but began to eat.
“Toto, how much longer are you going to remain in this wretched Rue de Perpignan? Everywhere I go the cry is ‘Where is Toto?’ or ‘When will Toto be back?’”
“Why, you said a moment ago nobody asked for me.”
“Neither do they, but they speak of you, nevertheless; they do not ask for you because they imagine you in Corsica, but they mourn your absence.”
“Oh, bother them—let them mourn!” said Toto in a gruff voice, chewing his cigarette in an irritable manner.
“And how is Art going on?” asked Gaillard, casting his eyes about as if he were looking for her.
“All right; don’t bother me. I’m sick of talking art; tell me, How is Struve?”
“Struve is very well, though he declares that De Nani makes him sick.”