"I was intending to call upon you," interrupted Marcel. "I have a great deal to talk to you about."
"At your service."
"Oblige me by taking something," continued the painter, forcing a glass of wine on the landlord. "Now, sir," he continued, "you sent me lately a little paper, with a picture of a lady and a pair of scales on it. It was signed Godard."
"The lawyer's name."
"He writes a very bad hand; I had to get my friend here, who understands all sorts of hieroglyphics and foreign languages,"—and he pointed to Colline—"to translate it for me."
"It was a notice to quit; a precautionary measure, according to the rule in such cases."
"Exactly. Now I wanted to have a talk with you about this very notice, for which I should like to substitute a lease. This house suits me. The staircase is clean, the street gay, and some of my friends live near; in short, a thousand reasons attach me to these premises."
"But," and the landlord unfolded his receipt again, "there is that last quarter's rent to pay."
"We shall pay it, sir. Such is our fixed intention."
Nevertheless, the landlord kept his eye glued to the money on the mantelpiece and such was the steady pertinacity of his gaze that the coins seemed to move towards him of themselves.