Martin’s cap flew off.
“Yes, ma’am,” he said, pointing. “That is it. I live there.”
“Oh, indeed. And what is your name?”
“Martin Court Bolland, ma’am.”
“What an odd name. Why were you christened Martin Court?”
“I really don’t know, ma’am. I didn’t bother about it at the time, and since then have never troubled to inquire.”
Now, to be candid, Martin did not throw off this retort spontaneously. It was a little effusion built up through the years, the product of frequent necessity to answer the question. But the lady took it as a coruscation of rustic wit, and laughed. She turned to the nurse:
“Il m’a rendu la monnaie de ma pièce, Françoise.”
“J’en suis bien sûr, madame, mais qu’est-ce qu’il a dit?” said the nurse.
The other translated rapidly, and the nurse grinned.