"Hist!" said Madame Dépine, flushing.
For at this moment Madame Valière appeared on the pavement outside bearing a long French roll and a bag of figs, which made an excellent lunch at low water. Madame la Propriétaire, dominatingly bestriding her doorstep, was sandwiched between the two old ladies, her wig aggressively grey between the two browns. Madame Valière halted awkwardly, a bronze blush mounting to match her wig. To be seen by Madame Dépine carrying in her meagre provisions was humiliation enough; to be juxtaposited with a grey wig was unbearable.
"Maman, maman, the English monsieur will not pay two francs for his dinner!" And the distressed bookkeeper, bill in hand, shattered the trio.
"And why will he not pay?" Fire leapt into the black eyes.
"He says you told him the night he came that by arrangement he could have his dinners for one franc fifty."
Madame la Propriétaire made two strides towards the refractory English monsieur. "I told you one franc fifty? For déjeuner, yes, as many luncheons as you can eat. But for dinner? You eat with us as one of the family, and vin compris and café likewise, and it should be all for one franc fifty! Mon Dieu! it is to ruin oneself. Come here." And she seized the surprised Anglo-Saxon by the wrist and dragged him towards a painted tablet of prices that hung in a dark niche of the hall. "I have kept this hotel for twenty years, I have grown grey in the service of artists and students, and this is the first time one has demanded dinner for one franc fifty!"
"She has grown grey!" contemptuously muttered Madame Valière.
"Grey? She!" repeated Madame Dépine, with no less bitterness. "It is only to give herself the air of a grande dame!"
Then both started, and coloured to the roots of their wigs. Simultaneously they realised that they had spoken to each other.