“Why, you said five o’clock, and it is just about to strike the hour,” replied the gentleman, bowing low. “I am as exact as a pendulum; I hurried my sister who, I thought, would never finish arranging her hair; I always dread being late.”
“Yes, my brother wanted to ride,” said Mademoiselle Mangeot, “but I reminded him that we should arrive sooner on foot than in an omnibus.—Will you allow me to wish you a happy birthday, Monsieur Glumeau?”
And the middle-aged damsel, producing a pretty little bouquet of pompon roses, which she had under her shawl, presented it to Glumeau, who smelt it, making a peculiar face, and replied:
“Really, mademoiselle, you overwhelm me—pompon roses!”
“You are fond of them, I believe?”
“Oh, yes! I am very fond of them—but not too hot.”
“What! are there such things as hot bouquets?”
“Oh! I beg pardon, mademoiselle, I made a mistake; I meant to say that it would give me great pleasure to take it now.”
“Why, take it then, monsieur; as you see, I am offering it to you for that purpose.”
“To be sure—excuse me—I am absent-minded; I do take it—that is to say, yes, I accept these lovely roses.”