“Make yourself at home,” said Poufaille. Phil profited by the permission to look around him. A hunk of bread was lying on the model’s table. In an empty plate a fork fraternized with a pipe. The shelves on the wall were encumbered with rude canvases and rough models. The sculptor was smoothing down his clay. The scene did not attract the young American.
“Mademoiselle,” he said, preparing to retire, “I will pay you a visit at the Impasse de Vaugirard.”
“So as not to find me? You’ll be taking something for your cold, sure!”
“But, mademoiselle, I—I haven’t a cold!”
There was an explosion of laughter. Suzanne choked and Poufaille bellowed with joy.
“Ah ça,” Suzanne cackled. “Hou! hou! but—hou, hou! Helia taught you nothing, then?”
Phil stood amazed, with his hat in his hand.
“He’s nice, all the same, l’Angliche—we can’t let him go away alone—something would happen to him!” said Suzanne. “Put down your hat,” she added, “and lunch with us!”
“Of course, of course!” shouted Poufaille.
“Now be polite, Monsieur Phil,” Suzanne went on: “sit there and act as if you were in society. Help me peel my potatoes!”