“Make your bet.”
“Allow me to see what the weather is, first. Oh! it’s still raining very hard. I am in the game.”
“Monsieur is lucky!”
“And then, too, I am pretty good at this game!” said La Thomassinière, leaning back in his chair.
“I believe that I play it rather well too,” rejoined Destival, biting his lips angrily.
“Be quiet, messieurs! we can’t hear each other sing!” said the sprightly Athalie, while Auguste sang: “Il certo il mio periglio.”
La Thomassinière beat time falsely with his foot, murmuring, to make believe that he understood Italian:
“Very pretty! exceedingly pretty! bravo! bravo! bravissimo!”
Whereupon Monin stooped and whispered to Destival:
“Does that mean that we have lost, too?”