“Oh, darleen, why you not come before? You affright me. I sink you have haxident, and I am anxieuse.”
“No, no, I’ve only been gone an hour. I’ve had several narrow escapes, though. Nearly got blown into the Seine, was attacked by an Apache in the Avenue de l’Opera, and, stepping off the pavement to avoid going under a ladder, was knocked down by a taxi. But no bones broken; got home at last.”
“Ah! you laugh; but me, I wait here and I sink all the time you was keel. Oh, darleen! if you was keel I die too.”
“Nonsense! You’d make rather a jolly little widow. Well, what else have you been doing, besides worrying about me?”
“Oh, I make blouse. I sink it will be very pretty. You will see.”
“All right, we’ll put it on and go to the opera to-night.”
The “opera” is a cinema house near the Place St. Michel, where we go on rainy evenings, usually in our oldest clothes, and joking merrily about opera cloaks and evening dress.
“See! Isn’t it nice?”
She holds up a shimmering sketch in silk and pins. “It’s the chiffon you geeve me. But you must not spend your money like that. You spoil me.”
“Not at all. But talking about money reminds me: I got my English gold changed to-day. Now, let’s form a committee of ways and means. Here is all that lies between you and me and the wolf.”