“Artist-painter,” said the landlady. “I should have liked that trade.”
“It’s not a bad one,” Phil said.
“But very difficult,” replied the landlady. “We lately had a painter here—a very famous one; he painted with his feet. He used to tell me the hardest thing about it is to balance yourself on your hands while you are painting! Ah, monsieur, the public no longer appreciates the fine arts. If I were you, at your age, I’d learn to walk on a ball.”
“I’ll tell that to Mlle. Suzanne,” Phil said to himself. “She must be a real artiste—Mlle. Suzanne. And then we’ll talk about Helia!”
He thought he should never get to Mlle. Suzanne, the city was so enormous. He was meditating what he should say to her, when, all of a sudden, the cab began jolting over an atrocious stretch of pavement. Phil stuck his head through the window just as the cab drew up at the end of a blind alley.
“Say, cocher,” said Phil, “I think you’ve made a mistake.”
“Penses-tu, bébé!” murmured the cabman.
“What do you say?”
“I say it’s all right.”