“They don’t come for my beaux yeux—for mine,” said M. Pigeonneau, sadly. “Perhaps it’s for yours, young man. Je vous recommande la mère.”
I reflected a moment. “They came on account of Mr. Ruck—because at hotels he’s so restless.”
M. Pigeonneau gave me a knowing nod. “Of course he is, with such a wife as that—a femme superbe. Madame Ruck is preserved in perfection—a miraculous fraïcheur. I like those large, fair, quiet women; they are often, dans l’intimité, the most agreeable. I’ll warrant you that at heart Madame Ruck is a finished coquette.”
“I rather doubt it,” I said.
“You suppose her cold? Ne vous y fiez pas!”
“It is a matter in which I have nothing at stake.”
“You young Americans are droll,” said M. Pigeonneau; “you never have anything at stake! But the little one, for example; I’ll warrant you she’s not cold. She is admirably made.”
“She is very pretty.”
“‘She is very pretty!’ Vous dites cela d’un ton! When you pay compliments to Mademoiselle Ruck, I hope that’s not the way you do it.”
“I don’t pay compliments to Mademoiselle Ruck.”