ck, lazybones."

"Ten----"

"Yes. Aren't you hungry?"

"Hungry as a wolf!" he cried, with a sweep of his curtains.

"Come, then!" And the blonde head disappeared.

"This is living," said the young man to himself as he was
dressing,--he had never enjoyed such comfort away from home,--"the
little one is a happy combination of housekeeper and cook as well as
guide, philosopher, and friend. Seems to like it, too."

He noted that the little breakfast-table was arranged with neat
coquetry and set off with a bunch of red roses that filled the air
with their exquisite fragrance. Next he saw that Mlle. Fouchette
herself seemed uncommonly charming. She not only had her hair done up,
but her best dress on instead of the customary dilapidated morning
wrapper.

His quick, artistic eye took in all of these details at a glance,
falling finally upon the three marguerites at her throat.

"My faith! you are quite--but, say, little one, what's up?"

"I'm up," she laughingly answered, "and I've been up these two hours,
Monsieur Lazybones."

"But----"

"Yes, and I've been down in Rue Royer-Collard and paid our milk
bill,--deux francs cinquante, and gave that epiciere a piece of my
mind for giving me omelette eggs for eggs a la coque; for, while the
eggs were not bad, one wants what one pays for, and I'm going to have
it, so she gave me an extra egg this time. How do you like these?"

Without waiting for him to answer she added, "They are vingt-cinq
centimes for two, six at soixante-quinze centimes, and one extra,
which is trois francs vingt-cinq; and I got another pound of that
coffee in Boulevard St. Michel; but it is dreadful dear, mon
ami,--only you will have good coffee, n'est-ce pas? But three-forty a
pound! Which makes six francs soixante-cinq."

It was her way to thus account for all expenditures for their joint
household. He paid about as much attention as usual,--which was none
at all,--his mind still dwelling on the cheerfulness and genuine
comfort of the place.

"And the flowers, petite----"

"Of course," she hastily interrupted, "I pay for the flowers."

"No! no!" he explained. "I don't mean that! Is it your birthday,
or----"

"Yes," she said, thoughtfully, "that is it, Monsieur Jean. I was born
this morning!"

He laughed, but saw from the sparkle of the blue eyes that he had not
caught her real meaning.

"From the marguerites----"

"Ah, ca! I made the marchande des fleurs give me those. Aren't they