"Que voulez vous que je fasse," replied the old Frenchman, gruffly.
"Je suis j'ai—that is, donnez moi passport."
"Where do you go?" replied the Consul.
"Calai."
"Comment diable, speak Inglis, an I understan' you as besser. Your name?"
"Lorraine Snaggs, gentilhomme."
"What age have you?—how old?"
"Twenty-two."
"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?"