“Good morning, sir. Shall I prepare your bath?”
“She is a serpent!” muttered M. Max, tossing one arm weakly above his head... “all yellow.... But roses are growing in the mud ... of the river!”
“If you will take your bath, sir,” insisted the man in black, “I shall be ready to shave you when you return.”
“Bath... shave me!”
M. Max began to rub his eyes and to stare uncomprehendingly at the speaker.
“Yes, sir; good morning, sir,”—there was another bow and more rubbing of palms.
“Ah!—of course! Morbleu! This is Paris....”
“No, sir, excuse me, sir, London. Bath hot or cold, sir?”
“Cold,” replied M. Max, struggling upright with apparent difficulty; “yes,—cold.”
“Very good, sir. Have you brought your own razor, sir?”