"Do let me finish; you disturb me when I am trying to make Turkish points. Oh! what a sigh Elina just gave! Haven't you finished moving, young dreamer?"
"Yes, mademoiselle; it was all done this morning."
"Ah! that's why you came later than usual?"
"I spoke to Mademoiselle Frotard about it."
"Who moved you? Was it Sans-Cravate, the Lovelace of the cooks of the neighborhood?"
"No, mademoiselle."
"Then it must have been his mate—Jean Ficelle. He's a very clever youth. I sent him once to carry a letter to someone, on important business, and I saw that he was full of intelligence.—Pass me the Scotch thread, Sophie."
"Oh! mesdemoiselles, you know very well that Elina has a messenger she always patronizes—one Paul, who puts on airs when we pass, which I consider altogether too cheeky; I propose to tell that young man of the people what I think of him some fine day!"
"Isn't a messenger as good as other men?" muttered little Elina, angrily. "Why hasn't he the right to look at us?"
"As good as other men! a messenger!" cried a young woman with an affected manner, a mocking smile, and a shrill voice; "fellows who live on street corners or in wine shops! Great God! if one of them should presume to stare at me very long, I'd soon show him his place."