Elisabeth Dollon led the way into her flat and took the paper-hanger straight to the room that was to be decorated. It was the furthest from the entrance-door, the one in which M. Moche, the landlord, had had the partition re-established that had been removed by the previous tenant to make the two sets into one. The workman displayed no great anxiety to set to work, and began to ferret about everywhere and examine the young woman’s furniture in a rather inquisitorial fashion.
“A sweet, pretty place, this of yours!” he observed, “quite a little nest for turtle-doves!”
Elisabeth Dollon forced a smile: “Oh!” she protested, “you are mistaken, sir; love is not a happiness I can ever hope for.”
The workman looked at her with a flattering smile. “It won’t be your fault, then,” he declared; “a pretty girl like you can’t fail ...”
But Elisabeth Dollon was not in a mood to listen to the silly speeches the forward fellow might choose to make her. Not wishing, however, to seem too prim and prudish, she adroitly turned the conversation:
“How comes it,” she asked, “you’re working on a Sunday?”
“Lord! mam’zelle,” replied the workman, “because I go on the spree Mondays; but that’s neither here nor there, we’ve gassed enough, eh? and it’s high time to get to work.”
The man laid the rolls of paper he had brought with him on the floor, and opened them out one by one, asking the young lady to make her choice. “D’you prefer the sky-blue ’uns, or the pink, or the light green; there’s some of all sorts—gay and bright and fresh—like your colour, mam’zelle!”
But “mam’zelle” took no notice of the compliment, and fixed her choice on a light blue paper; then, as the paper-hanger seemed more inclined to gossip than do his work, she announced:
“I’m going into the next room to put various things in order; you’ll call me if you want me presently.”