Now it was like a duet of little cuckoo clocks, both in unison, both in time, both with that fascinating touch of the nasal Parisienne voice. Sally was enchanted with it all.
Last of all there was Madame—Madame smiling—Madame rubbing her fat, homely hands together—Madame's twinkling brown eyes dancing upon the two of them.
"You had a good dinner, Monsieur?"
"Excellent, thank you, Madame."
"Oh, Monsieur;" she caught Traill's arm and detained him as Sally went out in front. "Oh—monsieur—elle est charmante!" Her eyes lifted and her hands carried the words upwards—to heaven, if need be.
Traill threw back his head and laughed. "Madame—vous êtes trop romanesque pour ce monde."
"Ah, non, Monsieur—je suis ce que je suis. Je suis trop grosse peut-être, mais pas trop romanesque. Au'voir, Monsieur—merci—prenez garde d'elle, Monsieur." She held up a fat warning finger. "Au'voir, Madame. À bientôt."
They left her bowing there against the background of the old bottle glass, lit yellow by the light within, her smiles following them down the street.
"Well—there you are," said Traill, as they walked away. "That's the terrible, shameless Bohemian life in anarchist quarters. What a thing it is to be thankful for, that only the English manners are manners, and couldn't afford to show their face in Soho."