I replied that I was in the pink myself and trusted she was the same.
Never pinker in her life, she said; everything was perfectly lovely. She beckoned me nearer. She had a small favour to ask. At this season of peace and goodwill would the so amiable Lieutenant deign to enter her modest abode and take a little glass of vin blanc with her?
The "amiable Lieutenant" would be enchanted.
She swung the door open and bowed me in. The glasses were already filled and waiting on the table—a big one for me, a little one for her.
We clicked rims and lifted our elbows to the glorious victory, to the weather (which was rotten) and our mutual pinkness.
"A votre santé, mon Lieutenant!" crooned Madame the widow Palliard-Dubose.
"À votre, Madame," replied her Lieutenant, quaffing the whole issue in one motion. Paraffin, ladies and gentlemen, pure undiluted paraffin—paugh! wow! ouch!
If the fellow I met in the Lille Club who reads women's souls and gets 'em to feed out of his hand should also happen to read this, will he please write and tell me what my next move is? PATLANDER.