"Vous êtes Meestair Baxtair, n'est-ce pas? Ah, c'est bien ça. J'avais si peur de ne pas vous trouver. Mais maintenant je suis tranquille. Mon mari me suit. Ah, le voilà!" She turned about, the better to beckon to a huge man with two bags and a hold-all. "Pierre! Pierre!"
Beneath the avalanche of good-will Berry stood paralysed.
Recognizing that something must be done, I sought to interfere.
"Leave me alone," said Berry weakly. "I've—I've got off."
It took all my energy and most of my French to convince his vis-à-vis that she was mistaken.
During the interlude about fifteen "possibles" escaped us.
I threw a despairing glance in Jill's direction, wiped the sweat from my brow, and returned to the attack.
After four more failures my nerve began to go. Miserably I turned to my brother-in-law.
He was in the act of addressing a smart-looking girl in black, bearing a brand-new valise and some wilting roses.
Before she had had time to appreciate his inquiry there was a choking yell from the gangway, and a very dark gentleman, with an Italian cast of countenance, thrust his explosive way on to the pier.