At that moment there was a knock at the door. I opened it, and found there my washerwoman, or I should say my washerwoman's substitute, one whom I had never before seen. She was a bright, talkative little thing, a pearl of soapsuds, and said glibly that my usual attendant was ill, and she had come instead. I told her I was glad she had.
While putting down her basket her brown eyes took in the whole of my room, and she remarked with a shiver, "What a sad home you live in!—gloomy, ugly little chamber."
"Does your young man have a better one, my dear?"
"You are not my confessor," she answered saucily.
"I wish I were."
"Let me be yours."
"No objections."
"Who is the joli garçon you condemn to share with you this gloomy apartment?" She pointed to the portrait.
"A dear friend of mine."
"He looks as if he drank absinthe, and had broken his head on the pavement; nevertheless, I like him. Bring him to see me."