“No! no, the American canoe,” I explained.
“Ah! parfaitement! But, monsieur, that is not mine; it belongs to my brother. He left town yesterday, but you could write him here explaining what you wish and I will leave it here on his desk.”
He touched an electric button over an escritoire, and left me with a low bow. I began to write. I had just slipped the note in its envelope when his brother entered unexpectedly—a placid gentleman with a well-trimmed beard.
“Monsieur,” I began in my rapid French, “it is for the difficulty of having to find a boat of oars that I have become desolate that has inspired me to come to you to ask you to rent me yours which I find of the type ravishing to my eyes as well as practical to the voyage.”
He smiled pleasantly as I talked on, putting his hand to his ear. At last he spoke in a high-keyed, monotonous voice.
A PARISIAN SUNDAY ALONG THE SEINE
“Monsieur, the lady whom you speak of I am not acquainted with.”
“It is not a lady!” I replied in my best megaphone French. “It is a boat, your canoe, at Chatou; want to rent it?”
His face brightened at last, I thought.