Phillis was seated at the desk, writing.
"What are you doing ?" he asked in surprise.
"I am writing our menu, for you know we are not going to sit down at the table like the bourgeois.

How do you like it ?" She read it to him.
"Sardines de Nantes." "Cuisse de dinde rotie." "Terrine de pate de foie gras aux truffes du Perigord." "But this is a feast." "Did you think that I would offer you a fricandeau au jus ?" She continued: "Fromage de Brie." "Choux a la creme vanillge." "Pomme de Normandie." "Wine." "Ah! Voila! What wine?
I do not wish to deceive you.

Let us put, 'Wine from the wine-seller at the corner.' And now we will sit down." As he was about to seat himself, she said: "You do not give me your arm to conduct me to the table.

If we do not do things seriously and methodically we shall not believe in them, and perhaps the Perigord truffles will change into little black pieces of anything else." When they were seated opposite to each other, she continued, jesting: "My dear doctor, did you go to the representation of Don Juan, on Monday ?" And Saniel, who, in spite of all, had kept a sober face, now laughed loudly.
"Charming!" she cried, clapping her hands.

"No more preoccupation; no more cares.