“Never, mademoiselle,” he cried illogically. “Your friendship will always be precious to me. You came into this dull house with your youth, your freshness, your wit and your charm—different from the ordinary hotel guest you have joined my little intimate family life—Félise, for example adores you—were it not for her mother, you would be her ideal. And I——” “And you, Monsieur Bigourdin?” Her voice had the flat sound of a wooden mallet striking a peg. The huge man bowed with considerable dignity. “I shall miss terribly all that you have brought into this house, Mademoiselle.” Corinna relaxed into a mocking smile. “Fortinbras warned us that you were a poet, Monsieur Bigourdin.” “Every honest man whose eyes can see the beautiful things of life must be a poet of a kind. It is not necessary to scribble verses.” “But do you? Do you write verse?” “_Jamais de la vie_” he declared stoutly. “An _hôtelier_ like me count syllables on his fingers? _Ah, non!_ I can make excellent pâté de foie gras—no one better in Périgord—but I should make execrable verses. _Ah, voyons donc!_” He laughed lustily and Corinna laughed too; and Martin, appearing on the verandah, asked and learned the reason of their mirth. After a word or two their host left them fanning himself with his great hat. “What on earth brought you here?” said Corinna. “I was having the flirtation of my life.” CHAPTER VI A WEEK passed and Fortinbras did not come. Corinna wrote to him. He replied: “Have patience, cultivate Martin’s sense of humour and make Félise give you lessons in domestic economy. The cook might instruct you in the various processes whereby eggs are rendered edible and you might also learn how to launder clothes without disaster to flesh or linen. I am afraid you are wasting your time. Remember you’re not like Martin who needs this rest to get his soul into proper condition. I will come whither my heart draws me—for I yearn to see my little Félise—as soon as I am allowed to do so by my manifold avocations and responsibilities.” Corinna, in a fury, handed the letter to Martin and asked him what he thought of it. He replied that, in his opinion, Fortinbras gave excellent advice. Corinna declared Fortinbras to be an overbearing and sarcastic pig and rated Martin for standing by and seeing her insulted. “You gave him five francs for putting you on the road to happiness,” he replied. “He has done his best, and seems to keep on doing it—without extra charge. I think you ought to be grateful. His suggestions are full of sense.” “Confound his suggestions,” cried Corinna. “I think our friend Bigourdin would be pleased if you followed them.” “I don’t see what our friend Bigourdin has to do with it.” “He would give you all the help he could. A Frenchman likes a woman to know how to do things.” “I won’t wash clothes,” said Corinna defiantly. “You might rise superior to a brand of soap,” retorted Martin.