"Fantasy nothing!" I said—"pas de fantaisie! un soot anglais"—here an idea struck me and I tapped myself on the chest—"like this," I said, "comme ceci."
"Bon," said the tailor, now perfectly satisfied, "une fantaisie comme porte monsieur."
Here I got mad.
"Blast you," I said, "this is not a fantaisie. Do you take me for a dragon-fly, or what? Now come, let's get this fantaisie business cleared up. This is what I want"—and here I put my hand on a roll of very quiet grey cloth on the counter.
"Très bien," said the tailor, "une fantaisie."
I stared at him.
"Is that a fantaisie?"
"Certainement, monsieur."
"Now," I said, "let's go into it further," and I touched another piece of plain pepper and salt stuff of the kind that is called in the simple and refined language of my own country, gents' panting.
"This?"