akes a romance of every single one of them.
Her own days are memories, but, being French, she still lives in the
romance of others.

"Good evening," said Traill; "how's the business--good?"

"Mais, oui, Monsieur; les affaires vont assez bien."

They climbed down the narrow little staircase, made narrower and
almost impassable by the pots of evergreens placed for decoration
upon some of the steps. There, in the flood of light, the little room
papered in gold, hung with pictures advertising the place, all done
by needy customers--mostly French--who had given them to the
establishment for a few francs, or out of the fullness of their hearts,
they were greeted in welcome again by Berthe, the little waitress.

"Bon soir, Monsieur; bon soir, Madame."

It was like the cuckoo hopping from the clock to sing his note at
every quarter.

There were little tables in every corner, all covered with
virgin-white cloths and, in the centre of each, a vase full of
chrysanthemums. It was all in order--all spick and span--French,
every touch of it.

"Ou voulez-vous asseoir, Monsieur? Sous l'escalier?"

Under the staircase by which they had just descended, two tiny tables
had been placed--babies, thrust into the corner, looking plaintively
for company. An Englishman would probably have made a cupboard of
the place for odds and ends.

Traill consulted Sally. She did not mind. Anything in her mood would
have pleased her. The atmosphere of all that was foreign in
everything around her had lifted her above ordinary considerations.
Under the stairs, then, they sat, Traill's head almost touching the
sloping roof above him.

"Well, what do you think you'd like to have?" he asked. And Berthe
stood by, patiently waiting, content to study the little details that
made up Madame's costume; her eyes were lit with the same romantic
interest which the proprietress had shown on their arrival.

"I don't mind."

"Well, will you have escargots?"

"What's that?"

"Snails."

Sally shook her head with a grimace and smiled. Berthe tittered with
laughter.

"Monsieur is funning, he would not eat escargots himself." She smiled
at Sally, the smile that opens confidence and invites you within;
no grudging of it between the teeth, ill-favoured and starved, as
we do the thing in this country.

"However did you find this lovely little place?" asked Sally, when
the girl had gone with Traill's order.

"Deux consommes, deux!" shouted Berthe through