"Of course, you must judge of that—'Mon premier—'"
"It is in French!" cry I, with an accent of disgust.
"Well, why should not it be?" (rather tartly).
"No reason whatever, only that I warn you beforehand I shall not understand it: I always shiver when people tell me a French anecdote; I never know when the point has arrived: I always laugh too soon or too late."
He says nothing, but looks black.
"Go on!" say I, laughing. "We will try, if you like."
"Mon—premier—est—le—premier—de tout," he says, pronouncing each word very separately and distinctly. "Do you understand that?"
I nod. "My first is the first of all—yes."
"Mon second n'a pas de second."
"My second has no second—yes."