I raised my hat.

“Pardon, madame.  Mais vous etes Camille——­”

“Reeang,” was the discomfiting reply.  “Par de baggarge.”

I realized that an offer which I had not made had been rejected, and that the speaker was not of French descent.

The sting of the rebuff was greatly tempered by the reception with which
Berry’s advances were met.

I was too late to hear what he had said, but the resentment which his attempt had provoked was disconcertingly obvious.

After fixing my brother-in-law with a freezing stare, his addressee turned as from an offensive odour and invested the one word she thought fit to employ with an essence of loathing which was terrible to hear.

“Disgusting!”

Berry shook his head.

“The right word,” he said, “was ‘monstrous.’”

He turned to accost a quiet-looking girl wearing an oil-silk gaberdine and very clearly born upon the opposite side of the Channel.

With a sigh, I addressed myself to a widow with a small boy clad in a pelerine.  To my embarrassment she proved to be deaf, but when I had stumblingly repeated my absurd interrogation, she denied the impeachment with a charming smile.  During our exchange of courtesies the child stood staring at me with a finger deep in his mouth.  At their conclusion he withdrew this and pointed it directly at my chin.

“Pourquoi s’est-il coupe, maman?” he demanded in a piercing treble.

The question was appropriate, but unanswerable.

His mother lugged him incontinently away.

Berry was confronting one of the largest ladies I have ever seen.  As he began to speak, she interrupted him.

“Vous etes Meestair Baxtair, n’est-ce pas?  Ah, c’est bien ca.  J’avais si peur de ne pas vous trouver.  Mais maintenant je suis tranquille.  Mon mari me suit.  Ah, le voila!” She turned about, the better to beckon to a huge man with two bags and a hold-all. “Pierre!  Pierre!”

Beneath the avalanche of good-will Berry stood paralysed.

Recognizing that something must be done, I sought to interfere.

“Leave me alone,” said Berry weakly.  “I’ve—­I’ve got off.”

It took all my energy and most of my French to convince his vis-a-vis that she was mistaken.

During the interlude about fifteen “possibles” escaped us.

I threw a despairing glance in Jill’s direction, wiped the sweat from my brow, and returned to the attack.

After four more failures my nerve began to go.  Miserably I turned to my brother-in-law.

He was in the act of addressing a smart-looking girl in black, bearing a brand-new valise and some wilting roses.

Before she had had time to appreciate his inquiry there was a choking yell from the gangway, and a very dark gentleman, with an Italian cast of countenance, thrust his explosive way on to the pier.