"Thomas Rainsford," he said; then, for he could not deny his home, "from New Orleans."
"Ah!" exclaimed his companion, "that's why you speak such ripping French. Now, do you know, to hear me you wouldn't think I'd seen a gendarme or a Parisian pavement. My Western accent, you must have remarked it, refuses to mix with a foreign language. I can speak French," he said calmly, "but they can't understand me yet; I have been here two years."
There was a knock at the door. Dearborn started and held up his hand.
"If Monsieur will give me his boots," suggested the mellow voice of Alphonse, "I will clean them."
Fairfax picked up his boots, the big shoe and the smaller one, and handed out the pair through a crack in the door.
When once again the rabbit steps had pattered away—"Go on dressing," Dearborn said, "don't let me stop you. You don't mind my sitting here a minute until Alphonse does with his boot-cleaning operations. He's a magician at that. They keep their boots clean, here, if they don't wash."
Dearborn made himself comfortable, accepted a cigarette from the packet the landlady had given Fairfax, and put his feet on the chair that Fairfax had vacated.
"I went out last night to a little supper with some friends of mine. The banquet rather used me up."
He smiled, and Fairfax saw how he looked when he was more himself. His hair, as the water dried on it, was reddish, he was clean-shaven, his teeth were white and sound, his smile agreeable.