The gentleman takes a chair. So does Sorel.
The gentleman does not talk French. Fortunately, M. Sorel can speak the English: he has learned it in making purchases for his table.
“I am an officer of the government,” says Mr. Fox, with a very sharp, distinct utterance, “in the custom-house. You know 'customhouse'?”
M. Sorel does not commit himself. He is an importer of toys. One must be on his guard.
Thereupon, a complicated explanation: this street, and that street, and the other street, and this building, and the market, and the great building standing here.
Ah! yes! M. Sorel identifies the building. Then he is informed that many government officers are there. He knew it very well before.
The conversation goes a step farther.
Mr. Fox is one of those officers. The government is at present in need of a gentleman absolutely trustworthy, for certain important duties: perhaps to judge of silks; perhaps to oversee the weighing of sugar, of iron, of diamonds; perhaps to taste of wines. Who can say what service this great government may not need from its children!
With some labor, since the English is only a translucent, and not a transparent medium to Sorel, this is made clear. Still the horizon is dark.
Mr. Fox draws his chair nearer, facing Sorel, who looks uneasy: Sorel's feelings, to the thousandth degree of subdivision, are always declaring themselves in swift succession upon his face.