"Monsieur?" it enquired.
Reggy prided himself upon his French—he had taken a high place in college in this particular subject, but, as he remarked deprecatingly, his French seemed a bit too refined for the lower classes, who couldn't grasp its subtleties.
"Je veux un bain," he said.
He was startled by the ease with which she understood. Could it be that he looked—but, no, he appeared as clean as the rest of us. At any rate, she responded at once in French:
"Oui, monsieur. I'll bring it in to you." She withdrew her head and closed the door.
"What the deuce," cried Reggy, as he sat up quickly in bed. "She'll bring in the bath! Does she take me for a canary?"
"A canary doesn't make such a dickens of a row as you do," growled the quartermaster, "looking for a bath at six a.m."
I tried to console him by reminding him that it was much better to have Reggy sweet and clean than in his present state, but he said it made small difference to him as he had a cold in his head anyway. Reggy, as an interested third party, began to look upon our controversy as somewhat personal, and was about to interfere when a rap at the door cut short further argument.
Two chambermaids entered the room, carrying between them a tin pan about two feet in diameter and six inches in depth. It contained about a gallon of hot water. They placed it beside his bed.
"Voici, monsieur!" cried she of the golden locks.