he was indeed a good one, he, a perfect heart of gold, but ever at the shop: Suzanne the wife, she too, oh certainly, was also good, but . . . as was no more than natural, she had her own ways, she did not understand the old woman’s, she did not require her help: while as for the child, the little Suzee—the old dame stopped abruptly.
“And you?” asked Philippe. “What is your name?”
It was, if monsieur pleased, she answered meekly, “Nanette.” Nanette! It sounded so like “Ninon” that Philippe’s face grew white again. Nanette was much concerned.
“It is very easy to see,” she observed, “that monsieur has indeed been ill. Monsieur requires attention, above all, he should have nourishing food. A good soup, now, with cabbage in it, a cutlet, a tender poulet with salad, a flask of white wine, and a good little cup of coffee to bury it all—black, with cognac.”
Philippe felt his long-lost appetite come suddenly back as she enumerated with zest the savoury details of this once-familiar menu. It was with a heart-felt sigh that he answered, perhaps a little impatiently:
“Yes, yes! But then it is impossible to get such things here—the right things—properly prepared”
“Why not? I will wager that I can prepare them,” interrupted Nanette with a confident chuckle—which ended in the middle, however, and her good old face clouded over. “It is true!” she said, in her turn with a sigh. “I have not my own kitchen, my own utensils. Here, one puts the potatoes into
