He was in a narrow street full of hotels and fashionable barber shops, from which came an odor of cosmopolitan perfumery, of casinos and ballrooms and diplomatic receptions, when he noticed an American officer coming towards him, reeling a little,—a tall, elderly man with a red face and a bottle nose. He saluted.
The officer stopped still, swaying from side to side, and said in a whining voice:
“Shonny, d'you know where Henry'sh Bar is?”
“No, I don't, Major,” said Andrews, who felt himself enveloped in an odor of cocktails.
“You'll help me to find it, shonny, won't you?... It's dreadful not to be able to find it.... I've got to meet Lootenant Trevors in Henry'sh Bar.” The major steadied himself by putting a hand on Andrews' shoulder. A civilian passed them.
“Dee-donc,” shouted the major after him, “Dee-donc, Monshier, ou ay Henry'sh Bar?”
The man walked on without answering.
“Now isn't that like a frog, not to understand his own language?” said the major.
“But there's Henry's Bar, right across the street,” said Andrews suddenly.
“Bon, bon,” said the major.