Though her greeting was bravely bright, it seemed to me that Anastasia had been crying, and of the nice omelette she had provided for my lunch she would scarcely taste.
“What’s the trouble, Little Thing; out with it.”
She hesitated; looked anxious, miserable, apologetic.
“I don’t like trouble you, darleen, but the concierge have come for the rent tree time, and I don’t know what I must say.”
“The rent! I quite forgot that. Why, yes, we pay rent, don’t we? How much is it?”
“Don’t you remember? One ’undred twenty-five franc.”
“Well, there’s only one thing to do—pay it. But to do so I must put my ticker up the spout.”
“Oh, my poor darleen, I’m so sorry. I sink it is me bring you so much trouble. If it was not for me you have plenty of money, I sink.”
“Don’t say that. If it wasn’t for your economies I’d be rustling for crusts in the gutter. And anyway, what’s the good of a watch when I can see the time in every shop I pass? Besides, I might lose it; so here goes.”
It is quite in tune with the cheerful philosophy of the French to find a virtue in misfortune. Whether they break a glass, spill red wine, or step in dirt, it’s all the same: “Ah! but it will carry the good luck.”