"Dear no--I want to see you alone."
"That's the way I want to see YOU!" she replied. "Like before."
"Like before!" he gaily echoed. "But I mean has she had her coffee?"
"No, nothing."
"Then I'll send it up to her. Madame!" He had already, at the foot of
the stair, called out to the stout _patronne_, a lady who turned to
him from the bustling, breezy hall a countenance covered with fresh
matutinal powder and a bosom as capacious as the velvet shelf of a
chimneypiece, over which her round white face, framed in its golden
frizzle, might have figured as a showy clock. He ordered, with
particular recommendations, Mrs. Wix's repast, and it was a charm to
hear his easy brilliant French: even his companion's ignorance could
measure the perfection of it. The _patronne_, rubbing her hands and
breaking in with high swift notes as into a florid duet, went with him
to the street, and while they talked a moment longer Maisie remembered
what Mrs. Wix had said about every one's liking him. It came out enough
through the morning powder, it came out enough in the heaving bosom, how
the landlady liked him. He had evidently ordered something lovely for
Mrs. Wix. _"Et bien soigné, n'est-ce-pas?"_
_"Soyez tranquille"_--the patronne beamed upon him. _"Et pour Madame?"_
_"Madame?"_ he echoed--it just pulled him up a little.
_"Rien encore?"_
"_Rien encore._ Come, Maisie." She hurried along with him, but on the way
to the café he said nothing.