“Mon petit Poufaille, where’s the salt?” Suzanne asked, without paying the slightest heed to the sculptor’s rage.
“There,” answered Poufaille, “in the tobacco-jar.”
“And now, to dinner!” Suzanne called. “Here’s pig’s rump ragout!”
“To dinner!” shouted Poufaille.
“To dinner!” repeated Phil.
During the meal Phil, who had had a French lesson from Suzanne, tried to give her a lesson in geography. He spoke of America. But Suzanne declared that all those names hurt her head. And besides, she didn’t believe a word of it.
“Let’s talk of love instead,” she said. “Are you greatly in love with my friend Helia?”
Phil blushed.
“She is so pretty,” Suzanne continued; “and she’s not been spoiled, I can tell you! All the more merit in her to be good—she’s worth more than all of us together!—not to speak of her being pretty—pretty! That doesn’t hurt anything, does it, Monsieur Phil?”
Phil smiled.