“Ah, monsieur parle français?”
“Mais oui, madame.”
And then they drifted into a conversation, in the course of which Ernest learned that madame thought St. Peter’s Port very dull; that she had been there three days with her friends, and was nearly dead de tristesse; that she was going, however, to the public dance at the “Hall” that night. “Of course monsieur would be there;” and many other things, for madame had a considerable command of language.
In the middle of all this the door opened, and another lady of much the same cut as madame entered, followed by two young men. The first of these had a face of the commonplace English type, rather a good-humoured face; but when he saw the second, Ernest started, it was so like his own, as his would become if he were to spend half a dozen years in drinking, dicing, late hours, and their concomitants. The man to whom this face belonged was evidently a gentleman, but he looked an ill-tempered one, and very puny and out of health; at least so thought Ernest.
“It is time for dinner, Camille,” said the gentleman to madame, at the same time favouring Ernest with a most comprehensive scowl.
Madame appeared not to understand, and made some remark to Ernest.
“It is time for dinner, Camille,” said the gentleman again, in a savage voice. This time she lifted her head and looked at him.
“Din-nare, dinnare! qu’est-que c’est que din-nare?”
“Table d’hôte,” said the gentleman.
“O, pardon;” and with a little bow and most fascinating smile to Ernest, she took the gentleman’s extended arm and sailed away.