R.R. Davray is Anglomaniac: he not only talks it, he thinks it: signs himself “Henry,” like an Englishman, and has read more of your books than I have.
L.H. One?
R.R. Don’t be bitter, L.H. I read them—in the reviews—regularly.
(While they talk, a fiacre, disentangling itself from the traffic of the main thoroughfare, draws up at the newspaper-kiosk on the further side of the street, and discharges its occupants: one small, alert, and obviously a Frenchman; the other large and sedate, moving with a ponderous suavity, which gives him an air of importance, almost of dignity. But though he has still a presence, its magnificence has departed. Threading his way indolently across the traffic, his eye adventures toward the waiting group. Met by the studied cordiality of their greetings, his face brightens.)
R.R. Oscar, L.H. thinks you are late.
O.W. Thought I was going to be late, you mean, my dear Robbie. If I were, what matter? What are two minutes in three years of disintegrated lifetime? It is almost three years, is it not, since we missed seeing each other?
(This studied mention of a tragic lapse of time is not quite as happy as it would like to be, being too deliberate an understatement. The tactful “Robbie” hastens to restore the triviality suitable to the occasion.)
R.R. Oscar, when did you learn to cross streets? I have just seen you do it for the first time. In London you used to take a cab.
O.W. No, Robbie, the cab used to take me. But here the French streets are so polite; one gets to the right side of them without knowing it. (He turns to L.H.) How delightfully English of you to think that I was going to be late!
L.H. I thought you might have done as I am always doing—gone to the wrong place, or lost your way.