"Non; not yalla, an' not with black spot'. Mais I see one li'le w'ite calf tie by a rope, yonda 'roun' the ben'."
"Dat warn't hit. Dis heah one was yalla. I hope he done flung hisse'f down de bank an' broke his nake. Sarve 'im right! But whar you come f'om, chile? You look plum wo' out. Set down dah on dat bench, an' le' me fotch you a cup o' coffee."
Azenor had already in his eagerness arranged a tray, upon which was a smoking cup of café au lait. He had buttered and jellied generous slices of bread, and was searching wildly for something when Tranquiline reëntered.
"W'at become o' that half of chicken-pie, Tranquiline, that was yere in the garde manger yesterday?"
"W'at chicken-pie? W'at garde manger?" blustered the woman.
"Like we got mo' 'en one garde manger in the house, Tranquiline!"
"You jis' like ole Ma'ame Azenor use' to be, you is! You 'spec' chicken-pie gwine las' etarnal? W'en some'pin done sp'ilt, I flings it' way. Dat's me—dat's Tranquiline!"
So Azenor resigned himself,—what else could he do?—and sent the tray, incomplete, as he fancied it, out to Lalie.
He trembled at thought of what he did; he, whose nerves were usually as steady as some piece of steel mechanism.
Would it anger her if she suspected? Would it please her if she knew? Would she say this or that to Tranquiline? And would Tranquiline tell him truly what she said—how she looked?