“But how late it is,” expostulated Madame Boncour, when he asked for lunch.
“I know it's very late. I have just finished a third of the work I'm doing.
“And do you get paid a great deal, when that is finished?” asked Madame Boncour, the dimples appearing in her broad cheeks.
“Some day, perhaps.”
“You will be lonely now that the Rods have left.”
“Have they left?”
“Didn't you know? Didn't you go to say goodby? They've gone to the seashore.... But I'll make you a little omelette.”
“Thank you.”
When Madame Boncour cams back with the omelette and fried potatoes, she said to him in a mysterious voice:
“You didn't go to see the Rods as often these last weeks.”