When you ask an Englishman whether he can speak French, he generally answers:
"I can read it, you know."
"Aloud!" you inquire, with a significant smile.
"Well," he says, "I have never had much practice in reading French aloud. I mean to say that I can understand what I read. Of course, now and then I come across a word that I am not quite sure about, but I can get on, you know."
"I suppose you manage to make yourself understood in France."
"Oh! very little French is required for that; I always go to the English hotels."
He always does so on the Continent, because these hotels are the only ones that can provide him with English comfort.
When he starts for Paris he gets on capitally till he reaches Calais. There he assumes his insular stiffness, which we Continental people take for arrogance, but is, in reality, only dignified timidity.
Arrived at the Gare du Nord, he takes a cab and goes to one of the hotels in the Rue Saint Honoré or the Rue de Rivoli.
The first time he reached one of these establishments, he tripped on getting out of his cab, and fell on the pavement. The porter helped him up and asked him: