"Out again without your nurses!" she cried sarcastically. "Saturday, of course."
"Now 'ear that!" said the chauffeur, almost tearfully, when I interpreted. "'Ow ever can a man keep track of anything in this bally country? Say, what was that question you was tryin' to ask me?"
"I 'm walking from Gib to Bordeaux," I remarked casually, and repeated my former inquiry. His expression changed slowly from incredulity to commiseration. Suddenly he thrust a hand into his pocket.
"I say, won't you 'ave a mite of a lift? Why, we took near all yesterday to come from that place. You couldn't walk there in a month."
"No, thanks, I 'm fairly well heeled," I answered.
"Better 'ave a yellow-boy," he persisted, drawing out several English sovereigns. "Lord, you 're more 'n welcome, y' know. They ayn't no bloomin' use to me 'ere!"
At that moment I noted that the milords under the awning had spread out before them a large touring map, and I left the chauffeur gasping at my audacity as I stepped across to them. The older was struggling to give an order to the waiter, who crouched towel on arm over them. There is a strange similarity between a full-grown Briton attempting to speak French and a strong man playing with a doll.
"Beg pawdon, gentlemen," I said, when I had helped them out of the difficulty, "but would you mind my glancing at your map? I want to find--"
"Ah--why, certainly," gasped one of the startled nobles.
But even with the chart before me I was no nearer a decision, for the two roads appeared of almost equal length. As I turned away, however, a poster on a nearby wall quickly settled my plans. It announced a great bullfight in Bayonne the next afternoon, with Quinito, Mazzatinito, and Regaterm, among the most famous of Spain's matadores--far more so than any it had been my fortune to see in that country.