“So you are back at last, sir! How brown you have got—quite sunburnt. You are quite well, I hope, sir?”
“Very well, thank you; has any one been here in my absence?”
“I was going to tell you, sir; the plumber has been here, because the tap of your cistern came off in my hand. It wasn’t my fault; there had been a heavy rain that morning. So—”
“Never mind, it’s only a tap to pay for. We won’t say any more about it. But did any one come to see me?”
“Ah, let me see—yes. A big gentleman, rather red-faced, with his wife, a fat lady, with a small voice; a fine woman, rather in my style, and their daughter—but perhaps you know her, sir?”
“Yes, Madame Menin, you need not describe her. You told them that I was away, and they said they were very sorry.”
“Especially the lady. She puffed and panted and sighed: ‘Dear Monsieur Mouillard! How unlucky we are, Madame Menin; we have just come to Paris as he has gone to Italy. My husband and I would have liked so much to see him! You may think it fanciful, but I should like above all things to look round his rooms. A student’s rooms must be so interesting. Stay there, Berthe, my child.’ I told them there was nothing very interesting, and that their daughter might just as well come in too, and then I showed them everything.”
“They didn’t stay long, I suppose?”
“Quite long enough. They were an age looking at your photograph album. I suppose they haven’t got such things where they come from. Madame Lorinet couldn’t tear herself away from it. ‘Nothing but men,’ she said, ‘have you noticed that, Jules?’—‘Well, Madame,’ I said, ‘that’s just how it is here; except for me, and I don’t count, only gentlemen come here. I’ve kept house for bachelors where—well, there are not many—’
“That will do, Madame Menin; that will do. I know you always think too highly of me. Hasn’t Lampron been here?”