L.H. Is he generally so late as this?
R.R. Generally never as early.
L.H. You are sure you said the Café Vieille Rose?
R.R. (with a disarming smile). As well as I could, my dear L.H. I can’t say it quite like you.
L.H. I don’t pretend to talk French: hearing it spoken absorbs all my faculties.
R.R. Oh, but you should! They are so charming about it: they pretend to understand you.
L.H. Well, I did screw up courage to go to a French barber yesterday.
R.R. Ah! That explains it. I was wondering.
L.H. You might well. When I looked in the glass after he had finished me I saw myself no longer English, but Parisian.
R.R. (enjoying himself). No, L.H., no! Not Parisian, I assure you!—Alsatian.