“C’est ca,” said the old consul, flinging the passport across the table, with the air of a man who thoroughly comprehended the applicant’s pretension to the designation of gentilhomme Anglais.
“Will you be seated ma’mselle?” said the polite old Frenchman, who had hitherto been more like a bear than a human being—“Ou allez vous donc; where to, ma chere?”
“To Paris, sir.”
“By Calais?”
“No, sir; by Boulogne”—
“C’est bon; quel age avez vous. What old, ma belle?”
“Nineteen, sir, in June.”
“And are you alone, quite, eh?”
“No, sir, my little girl.”
“Ah! your leetel girl—c’est fort bien—je m’appercois; and your name?”