“Oh, when she Bong-joured me that morning, I came back fast. It took her off her pins. I asked her questions in French, and then told her in English that she hadn’t answered ’em. I came later than the rest so as there’d be a crowd around. I made her own up that she couldn’t follow me. She tried to talk me down high-and-mighty-like, and pretend that my French was bad; but I jabbered right off to Mlle. Schwartz. Ma’m’selle isn’t very strong on the French herself—”
“What! Another fraud!”
“Well, she can do the French all right, but she’s really German and got her French mostly out of books. But she’s a demon on conjugations and rules.”
“Well, did Ma’m’selle stand by you?”
“You bet. I just went a little slower for her. She’s afraid of me—more afraid of me than she is of Bong-jour—so she always slams French back at me, to show she understands.”
“Well!” Blynn was delighted. “Did the old lady own up?”
“Partly, but everybody in school knows she’s an old fraud. She cried, ‘Slower! Oh, slower! ma cherie, s’il vouz plait,’ with a gasp after each word. But I never slower-ed a minute. I jabbered all the faster.”
“And so you’re going to chuck it?” he inquired mildly.
“Yes.”
He thought for awhile—to her a disconcerting thing; it made her feel in the wrong.