“I am hoarse!” murmured Agathe with a pout, as she left the piano.
Edmond sang again, and his sympathetic voice delighted the two friends so much that they listened too intently to hear Poucette, who stood in the doorway shouting that dinner was served. However, the young peasant’s loud voice succeeded at last in making itself heard. They left the piano and went down into the garden, where the table was laid under an arbor. To dine in the open air is one of the great joys of life in the country; and to those sybarites who fear that they may not have everything necessary to their comfort, who make a wry face if a leaf falls on their plate, if a maybug buzzes about their ears, I would say:
You do not know that the sense of well-being which one feels on breathing the pure country air always sharpens the appetite.
The dinner passed off very merrily.
Edmond was agreeable, Honorine witty, and Agathe happy. Everybody was content.
From time to time Edmond exclaimed:
“How lovely it is to live in the country! I think I must hire a little room in the neighborhood, for the summer; it would do me a great deal of good.”
“Is your health poor, monsieur?” asked Honorine in a slightly sarcastic tone, for the young man had done ample justice to the dinner.
“I am not ill as yet, madame; but my lungs are weak, very weak.”
“Why, that is strange; one would not think it, to hear you sing.”