“Garçon! garçon!” she called.
“Mademoiselle?” the garçon said, approaching slowly, with dignified scepticism.
“This gentleman, garçon, wants to be a lion with fleas on his back—at least so he says! At the same time he wants a slave. I don’t know if he expects the slave to catch his fleas or not. I haven’t asked him. But he’s a funny-looking bird, isn’t he?”
The garçon withdrew with hauteur.
“What’s the meaning of your latest tack, you little German art-tart?”
“What am I?”
“I called you German æsthetic pastry. I think that describes you.”
“Oh, tart, is it?”
“Anything you like. Very well made, puffed out. With one solitary Russian, bien entendu!”