Halfway down he stopped short again, slapping his leg. "And poor Mrs. Wix?"
Maisie's face just showed a shadow. "Do you want her to come?"
"Dear no—I want to see you alone."
"That's the way I want to see you!" she replied. "Like before."
"Like before!" he gaily echoed. "But I mean has she had her coffee?"
"No, nothing."
"Then I'll send it up to her. Madame!" He had already, at the foot of the stair, called out to the stout patronne, a lady who turned to him from the bustling, breezy hall a countenance covered with fresh matutinal powder and a bosom as capacious as the velvet shelf of a chimneypiece, over which her round white face, framed in its golden frizzle, might have figured as a showy clock. He ordered, with particular recommendations, Mrs. Wix's repast, and it was a charm to hear his easy brilliant French: even his companion's ignorance could measure the perfection of it. The patronne, rubbing her hands and breaking in with high swift notes as into a florid duet, went with him to the street, and while they talked a moment longer Maisie remembered what Mrs. Wix had said about every one's liking him. It came out enough through the morning powder, it came out enough in the heaving bosom, how the landlady liked him. He had evidently ordered something lovely for Mrs. Wix. "Et bien soigné, n'est-ce-pas?"
"Soyez tranquille"—the patronne beamed upon him. "Et pour Madame?"
"Madame?" he echoed—it just pulled him up a little.
"Rien encore?"