“I’ll have my tub at once,” said Martin.
He disappeared into the famous bathroom and after a few moments returned and made his toilet while he gossiped with Fortinbras of the things he had learned at the Café de l’Univers.
“It’s a funny thing,” said he, “but I can’t make Corinna see it.”
“She’s Parisianised,” replied Fortinbras. “In Paris we see things in false perspective. All the little finnicky people of the hour, artists, writers, politicians are so close to us that they loom up like mountains. You learn more of France in a week at Brantôme than in a year at Paris, because here there’s nothing to confuse your sense of values. Happy young man to live in Brantôme!”
He sighed and, seeing that Martin was ready, rose and accompanied him downstairs. Félise, fresh and dainty, with heightened colour and gladness in her eyes due to the arrival of the adored father, poured out Martin’s coffee. They were old-fashioned in the Hôtel des Grottes, and drank coffee out of generous bowls without handles, beside which, on the plate, rested great spoons for such sops of bread as might be thrown therein.
“It is as you like it?” she asked in her pretty, clipped English.
“It’s always the best coffee I have ever drunk,” smiled Martin. He looked up at Fortinbras lounging in the wooden chair usually occupied by Corinna. “Do you know, Mr. Fortinbras, that Mademoiselle Félise has so spoilt me with food and drink that I shall never be able to face an English lodging-house meal again?”
Fortinbras passed his arm round his daughter’s waist and drew her to him affectionately.
“She would spoil me too, if she had the chance. It is astonishing what capability there is in this little body.”
Félise, yielding to the caress, touched her father’s hair. “It’s like mamman, when she was young, n’est-ce pas?” She spoke in French which came more readily.