Patrine said, with a slight catch in her breath, as though some drops of chilly pleasant perfume had been suddenly sprayed on her:
"He supposes ... he thinks ... that I'm ... your friend!"
"I'll explain." He reddened, turning to the official, saying in the French of the British schoolboy, laborious, devoid of colloquialisms:
"Monsieur, vous n'avez pas compris. Madame elle—elle n'êtes qu'une étrangère. Pour mon ami, je ne lui vois. Si vous permettre d'entrer, peut-être——"
"Rototo! Voyez, man blousier, j'connais bien la sorte! Sufficit! Assez! Ça m' fait suer, comprends?" The gold-braided arm described a magnificent sweep, the large white kid-covered hand indicated remote distance—"Sortez! ..."
The Briton, thus invited to retire, looked at Patrine.
"I can't quite follow, but it's plain he's telling me to hook it. The rest is—pretty—strong?"
She nodded, biting her lip.
"Frightfully rude. Not that I know much Paris slang. But a friend of mine—" She broke off to listen, as from under the functionary's waxed moustache rattled another sentence:
"A l'instant, ou j'appelle l' sergent d'ville!"