"You have others?" he asked, after a short silence, during which it seemed to me that his eyes became strangely brilliant.
"Other names, Monsieur?"
"No, my child, other shoes."
And with a slender tongue he licked his lips, after the manner of cats.
I did not answer at once. This word shoes, reminding me of the coachman's salacious joke, had astounded me. Then that had a meaning? On a more pressing interrogation I finally answered, but in a voice somewhat hoarse and thick, as if I were, confessing a sin of gallantry:
"Yes, Monsieur, I have others."
"Glazed?"
"Yes, Monsieur."
"Highly, highly glazed?"
"Why, yes, Monsieur."