“I think,” said Corinna, looking up at him, “you have the most delicious little town I have seen in France.”
Bigourdin’s eyes beamed with gratification. He bowed and went back to his unfinished meal.
“Behold over there,” said he to Félise, “a young girl of extraordinary good sense. She is also extremely pretty; a combination which is rare in women.”
“Yes, uncle,” said Félise demurely.
The five commercial travellers rose, and, bowing as they passed their host, went out in search, after the manner of their kind, of coffee and backgammon at the Café de l’Univers in the Rue de Périgueux. It is only foreigners who linger over coffee, liqueurs and tobacco in the little inns of France. Presently Félise went off to the bureau to make up the day’s accounts, and Bigourdin, having smoked a thoughtful cigarette, crossed over to Martin and Corinna. After the good hotel-keeper’s enquiry as to their gastronomic satisfaction, he swept his hand through his inch-high standing stubble of black hair, and addressed Martin.
“Monsieur Over—Oversh—forgive me if I cannot pronounce your name——”
“Overshaw,” said Martin distinctly.
“Auvershaud—Auverchat—non—c’est bigrement difficile.”
“Then call me Monsieur Martin, à la française.”
“And me, Mademoiselle Corinne,” laughed Corinna.