“You're my girl, Yvonne; ain't yer?” Fuselli put his arms round her.
“Sale bete,” she said, laughing and pushing him away.
There was a brisk step outside and another girl came into the kitchen, a thin yellow-faced girl with a sharp nose and long teeth.
“Ma cousine.... Mon 'tit americain.” They both laughed. Fuselli blushed as he shook the girl's hand.
“Il est beau, hein?” said Yvonne gruffly.
“Mais, ma petite, il est charmant, vot' americain!” They laughed again. Fuselli who did not understand laughed too, thinking to himself, “They'll let the dinner get cold if they don't sit down soon.”
“Get maman, Dan,” said Yvonne. Fuselli went into the shop through the room with the long oak table. In the dim light that came from the kitchen he saw the old woman's white bonnet. Her face was in shadow but there was a faint gleam of light in her small beady eyes.
“Supper, ma'am,” he shouted.
Grumbling in her creaky little voice, the old woman followed him back into the kitchen.
Steam, gilded by the lamplight, rose in pillars to the ceiling from the big tureen of soup.