“How is your patient, Monsieur Phil?” asked Ethel; “how is M. Caracal? Seasickness is a sad affair; even animals suffer from it—the ox, the ass, the hog, the monkey—”
“And especially man,” said Caracal, following Phil.
Caracal thanked Miss Rowrer. He was better. The responsibility of the old French politeness weighed on Caracal. He went through his most graceful manners, lifting his little finger in the air, and smiling and scraping his foot. And then—crac! a diving bow, with his lip turned up, to kiss one’s hand—or to bite it.
He wore a faultless suit, and an artistic cravat, which the wind swelled out like a banner. He redoubled his politeness to grandma, a sure means, in his mind, to win her granddaughter. He hummed to himself a music-hall refrain:
“Pour avoir la fille
Aimable et gentille,
C’est à la maman
Qu’il faut d’abord faire des compliments!”
(“To gain the daughter,
Sweet and pretty,