“Look,” said Horace—“the room is full of light—the sun will soon be peeping over the roofs. We must be packing. I have kept my best trunk for thy belongings, Babette.”
She laughed:
“It will take no time—I have as little wardrobe as dowry to bring thee, Horace.”
“You always look so well, Babette,” said he—“I had not realized thou hadst not even a trunk till the night before last.... Thou must be at the Louvre as early as the big shops open this morning, and buy all thou canst buy of gowns and kickshaws in an hour.... It will save thee from fretting upon the hardship of thy life with me, Babette, until we leave. Where is thy purse?”
She laughed and handed him her light purse.
He bulged it out with banknotes.
“Thou must spend all this in gowns,” he said.
She took the notes and unfolded them upon the table:
“But—but, Horace, this will buy me many silk gowns—we must not waste——”
He kissed her, and laughed: