THE ARM-CHAIR AT THE INN
went the fish and away she flew, throwing her arms around the dear old woman’s neck, not caring who saw her; hugging her one minute, kissing her seamed cheeks the next, chattering like a magpie all the time, her eyes flashing, her cheeks red as two roses.
Only when Lemois appeared in the kitchen door and bent his steps toward us did her customary demureness return, and even then the joy in her heart was only stifled for the moment by a fear of his having overheard her song and of his wondering at the cause.
And if the truth be told, he did come very near finding out when luncheon was served, and would have done so but for the fact that I upset Le Blanc’s glass of Vouvray and followed up the warning with a punch below his fat waist-line when he began telling us how sorry he was for being late, he having made a wide détour to avoid the market carts, winding up with: “And oh, by the way, I met your little maid, Mignon, in the fish-market; she was having a beautiful time with a young fisherman who”
It was here the dig came in.
“Ouch! What the devil, High-Muck, do you mean? Oh, I understand—yes, as I was say-
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