“Ah, not many times; soon all goes to finish, and I have none person to make this charming English go in my so stupide head.”
“What will you do then?”
“I jeter myself into the lake.”
“Don’t be foolish; I’m dull to-day, and want to be cheered up; suicide isn’t a pleasant subject.”
“Good! See here, then—a little plaisanterie—what you call joke. Can you will to see it?” and he laid a little pink cocked-hat note on her lap, looking like a mischievous boy as he did so.
“‘Mon Casimer Teblinski;’ I see no joke;” and Amy was about to tear it up, when he caught it from destruction, and holding it out of reach, said, laughing wickedly,—
“The ‘mon’ is one abbreviation of ‘monsieur,’ but you put no little—how do you say?—period at the end of him; it goes now in English—‘My Casimer Teblinski,’ and that is of the most charming address.”
Amy colored, but had her return shot ready.
“Don’t exult; that was only an oversight, not a deliberate deception like that you put upon me. It was very wrong and rude, and I shall not forgive it.”
“Mon Dieu! where have I gone in sinning? I am a polisson, as I say each day, but not a villain, I swear to you. Say to me that which I have made of wrong, and I will do penance.”