“Ah! so you are an American and a painter,” Caracal said to Phil. “Tiens! tiens! tiens! I thought there were only pork-packers in that country. Salut, messieurs!”
Before Phil could answer a word, Caracal had straddled over the rough model of “Fraternity,” jumped across the potatoes, and gone out, slamming the door behind him.
“He’s not polite—M. Caracal,” Suzanne remarked; “but you English don’t care!”
“I am an American!”
“Well, then, M. l’Américain, what are you waiting for? Give me your hand and help me down!”
But she was on the ground before Phil could assist her.
“Oh, my good Helia!” said Suzanne. “How glad I am she is so happy!”
“The friends of our friends are our friends,” bawled Poufaille, as he patted Phil on the shoulder with his great hairy hand. “Sit down, Monsieur Phil.”
Phil sat down, much encouraged by their welcome.
Suzanne went and came lightly, moving things about. She took a cigarette, lighted it, and threw it away. He saw her approach the stove and raise the cover of the pot. A bubbling noise came from it.