"'Passez-moi cela, s'il vous plait.' It means 'Pass me that, please.' Say it after me ten times, then you'll know it by heart."
A few minutes later Monica was escorted to tea by Nat. The big oak-raftered and panelled room with its long tables covered with snow-white napery was a cheery sight, especially when filled with seventy or eighty hungry schoolgirls and echoing with the chatter of their voices. The new girl sat quiet and silent by Nat's side, subdued by the crowds of strange faces, the buzz of strange voices. Curious glances were cast at her by some of the Fifth Form girls who had heard of her reputation, but on the whole they were too busy satisfying their appetites and racking their brains for French phrases to take much notice of Monica.
At her table Glenda Vaughan, tall and good-looking in her dark, handsome style, was holding everyone's attention with her endeavour to relate a humorous story in French, and her love of dramatic effect was shown in every varying tone of her voice, every flash of her dark eyes.
"Attention, mes enfants," she commenced. "Je vais vous dire une petite conte—une conte très-très drôle," and in somewhat remarkable French she endeavoured to relate how the witty young French guest asked his French hostess a riddle. Why was she like the teapot? Here Glenda paused, gazed round triumphantly, then continued: "Et le jeune homme répondit: 'Parce que vous êtes pleine de bonté.'"
Everyone looked puzzled. No one laughed. As a matter of fact Glenda was the only one at the table who might be said to possess linguistic talent and she was very proud of her French. Besides, she had studied up this little story very carefully in order to make an impression.
Nat, who was steadily working her way through her third slice of bread and butter before embarking on cake, paused in the act of helping herself to raspberry jam. "Mais, quel jeune homme stupide! Quel est le joke?" she demanded. "Je—je ne le vois pas."
Glenda, annoyed, flounderingly tried to explain in a mixture of French and English, disregarding the possibility of a fine. "Que vous êtes bêtises! Pleine de bonté—full of goodness; pleine de bon thé—full of good tea. Comprenez?"
Ida Preston burst out laughing while in the act of drinking from her cup, with the natural result that she choked and fell to coughing violently, much to the delight of her unfeeling table companions.
Miss Moore, the mistress in charge that day, stopped chatting to Allison and glanced severely across at the scene of this sudden commotion.
"Comment donc! Qu'avez-vous, Glenda, Irene? Taisez-vous."