“Passable, monsieur; not very good at this moment; my nerves are unstrung, I have palpitations.”
“It’s the weather, madame; the heat is intense to-day: twenty-six degrees and three-tenths.”
“Twenty-seven, neighbor,” said Monsieur Destival, glancing at his thermometer.
“That’s surprising! it isn’t so high at my house, and yet mine’s in the same position. My wife says that I’ve made it too low lately.”
“Why did not Madame Monin come with you, neighbor?”
“She’s making pickles, and it will take her all day. My! but she takes a lot of pains with ‘em! She won’t go out to-day.”
“I am deeply indebted to the pickles,” whispered Madame Destival, while Monsieur Monin continued, doing his utmost to force another pinch into his nose:
“My wife said to me: ‘I don’t need you, Monin, take a walk.’ So I came to see you.”
“That was very agreeable of you, neighbor. Will you pass the whole day with us?”
“Why, yes, if it don’t put you out, I should like to, because I’ll tell you—when my wife’s making pickles, she don’t like to bother with cooking.”