“B’jour, m’sieu.” She sounded very sweet and tender. I was really surprised, for I had expected to hear a tough voice that would shame a foghorn.
“Parley-vous Anglais?” inquired Ben.
“Une petite peu.”
“Huh?”
No answer.
“I said ‘Comment?’” insisted Ben.
She turned to him then and said, while she looked at me, “I said I speak Anglaish juste a little.”
“Now, ain’t that grand!” exclaimed Ben, expanding with relief. The mademoiselle smiled at him. “What’s on yer mind? Whatta ya got on fer to-night, this evening, this afternoon, right now?” he inquired, leaning on one foot very nonchalantly—about as nonchalantly as a cow would look leaning on one foot.
“Me? For you?” The mademoiselle laughed. “Ou la la!”
Ben laughed, too, but retorted, “Sure! Who’d you think I’m tryin’ to fix up—General Pershing?”