"How much do you think?"
"If madame gave five pounds—having regard to the chic of the quarter."
Christine rushed into the bedroom and came back with a five-pound note.
"Here! Chuck that at him—politely. Tell him we are very sorry."
"Yes, madame."
"But he'll never take it. You can't treat the London police like that!" G.J. could not help expostulating as soon as Marthe had gone. He feared some trouble.
"My poor friend!" Christine replied patronisingly. "Thou art not up in these things. Marthe knows her affair—a woman very experienced in London. He will take it, thy policeman. And if I do not deceive myself no more chimneys will burn for about a year.... Ah! The police do not wipe their noses with broken bottles!" (She meant that the police knew their way [96] about.) "I no more than they, I do not wipe my nose with broken bottles."
She was moved, indignant, stoutly defensive. G.J. grew self-conscious. Moreover, her slang disturbed him. It was the first slang he had heard her use, and in using it her voice had roughened. But he remembered that Concepcion also used slang—and advanced slang—upon occasion.
The booming ceased; a door closed. Marthe returned once more.
"Well?"