“Does that mean cheaper?” inquired Mr. Potiphar.
Mr. Firkin looked at him compassionately.
“I only want,” said Mr. Potiphar, in a kind of gasping way, for it was in the cars on the way from Boulogne to Paris that we held this consultation—“I only want to go where there is somebody who can speak English.”
“My dear sir, there are Commissionaires at all the hotels who are perfect linguists,” said Mr. Firkin in a gentlemanly manner.
“Oh! dear me!” said Mr. P. wiping his forehead with the red bandanna that he always carries, despite Mrs. P., “what is a commissionaire?”
“An interpreter, a cicerone,” said Mr. Firkin.
“A guide, philosopher, and friend,” said Kurz Pacha.
“Kurz Pacha, do you speak French?” inquired Mr. P. nervously, as we rolled along.
“Oh! yes,” replied he.
“Oh! dear me!” said Mr. Potiphar, looking disconsolately out of the window.