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.