"You do not deceive me," she said. "There is something about you—you are a Frenchman?"
The waiter had been piling plates up on a tray. He put the tray down on the table, smiled with a total change of manner, and answered her.
"No," he said with a grin.
"I knew it," Pauline said. "Is it then that you are Irish, M. Jacques?"
"Most certainly not," replied the waiter.
"I figure to myself that you are English?"
Jacques came up still closer to the maid, his voice dropped, and his manner became confidential. "Not even quite English, mademoiselle," he said. "I'm a Scotsman. I was born at Ecclefechan."
"Mon Dieu!" said Pauline; "Eccle——! What a name of barbarity! I did not know that there were such names. La! la! But your name, monsieur, your name—Jacques?"
"Mademoiselle speaks English?"
"Quite well," Pauline replied.