But where I will and when it seems best to me....

Very soon, Ulysses!" He felt complete gratification in all these affirmations made in a caressing and submissive voice, all possible pride in such spontaneous, affectionate address, equivalent to the first surrender.
The arrival of one of Uncle Caragol's acolytes made them recover their composure.

He was bringing two enormous glasses filled with a ruddy and foamy cocktail,--an intoxicating and sweet mixture, a composite of all the knowledge acquired by the _chef_ in his intercourse with the drunkards of the principal ports of the world.
She tested the liquid, rolling up her eyes like a greedy tabby.

Then she broke forth into praises, lifting up the glass in a solemn manner.
She was offering her libation to Eros, the god of Love, the most beautiful of the gods, and Ferragut who always had a certain terror of the infernal and agreeable concoctions of his cook, gulped the glass in one swallow, in order to join in the invocation.
All was arranged between the two.

She was giving the orders.