“I wonder how much they charge to get out,” wondered the Canadian.
Along about the middle of the show our own usher popped up before me and held out her right hand, at the same time exhibiting both teeth in an ingratiating smile. I shook the proffered hand. She withdrew her teeth.
“Non, non, non, non,” she said.
I asked her what she voulez-voued. She was coy.
“Do you want a tip?” I inquired in plain Michigan.
Both teeth reappeared. A dental curiosity drove me to hand her three francs. I had not underestimated.
In the second act a very nice-looking lady sang A Broken Doll in plain Thirty-ninth Street. The stage chorus tried to help her out on the second refrain, but, with all due modesty, I must say that it was the Canadians and I who earned the vociferous encore.
Lundi, 27 Août. Paris.
The first batch of laundry was back when I returned from the theater Saturday night. Collars were done up in a neat package, tied with baby-blue ribbon. They looked just as when I had sent them out except that there was a high, shiny polish over the soiled spots. As for handkerchiefs, let us follow the British communiqué style:
“Eleven of our handkerchiefs went over the Blanchisserie lines. Two came back. Nine are missing.”