Over our petit déjeûner of coffee and croissants we are both very gay. I decide not to work that day; we will go for a walk.
“Geeve me your pipe, darleen. I feel it for you.”
“I don’t seem to be able to find it,” I answer, searching my pockets elaborately.
“You have not lost it?”
“Oh, no, just mislaid it. Never mind, it will turn up all right. Are you ready?”
“Yes, all ready.” She holds the precious muff up to her chin, peering at me over it.
“But your wrap! Aren’t you going to put that on too?”
Then in fear and trembling she confesses. She has taken her fur to the Mont de Piété that she might have ten francs to buy the tobacco jar.
“Why!” I cry, “I sold my pipe so that I might have enough to buy your muff.”
Then I laugh loudly, and after a little she joins me; and there we are both laughing till we are tired; which is not the worst way of beginning Christmas Day, is it?