“And you—is it wine that makes you so gay?” Phil retorted.
“Well, I have little reason to be gay,” Poufaille replied. “If I drink, it is to stun myself. See here, do you want me to tell you?—but what use would it be! He who lives will see. By the way, you know that Helia has come back with Sœurette. She’s in town for a few days.”
“What!” Phil exclaimed; “how is it she is not here?”
“She was tired,” replied Poufaille. “But, entre nous, Phil, you’d just as lief she shouldn’t be here—eh?”
“But why?” Phil asked.
Poufaille was on the point of speaking, but some one at the end of the table called out with all his might:
“Farine! farine!
Embrassez votre voisine!”
It was the gallant refrain which winds up rustic feasts. Around the board all the women lent themselves with good grace to the custom. Poufaille devoured Suzanne with his eyes.
“Here’s your time,” Phil said to him. “What are you waiting for? Kiss her now, kiss her; she owes you as much as that!”