“Never, mademoiselle,” he cried illogically. “Your friendship will always be precious to me. You came into this dull house with your youth, your freshness, your wit and your charm—different from the ordinary hotel guest you have joined my little intimate family life—Félise, for example adores you—were it not for her mother, you would be her ideal. And I——”
“And you, Monsieur Bigourdin?”
Her voice had the flat sound of a wooden mallet striking a peg. The huge man bowed with considerable dignity.
“I shall miss terribly all that you have brought into this house, Mademoiselle.”
Corinna relaxed into a mocking smile.
“Fortinbras warned us that you were a poet, Monsieur Bigourdin.”
“Every honest man whose eyes can see the beautiful things of life must be a poet of a kind. It is not necessary to scribble verses.”
“But do you? Do you write verse?”
“Jamais de la vie” he declared stoutly. “An hôtelier like me count syllables on his fingers? Ah, non! I can make excellent pâté de foie gras—no one better in Périgord—but I should make execrable verses. Ah, voyons donc!”
He laughed lustily and Corinna laughed too; and Martin, appearing on the verandah, asked and learned the reason of their mirth. After a word or two their host left them fanning himself with his great hat.