Mayor.  We don’t want anything better than that.  I always say the great point about an Englishman is that he’s got bottom; you may knock him off his pins, but you find him on ’em again before you can say “Jack Robinson.”  He may have his moments of aberration, but he’s a sticker.  Morning, Builder, morning!  Hope you’ll say “yes.”

     He shakes hands and goes out, followed by Harris.

When the door is dosed builder stands a moment quite still with a gratified smile on his face; then turns and scrutinises himself in the glass over the hearth.  While he is doing so the door from the dining-room is opened quietly and Camille comes in.  Builder, suddenly seeing her reflected in the mirror, turns.

Builder.  What is it, Camille?

Camille.  Madame send me for a letter she say you have, Monsieur, from the dyer and cleaner, with a bill.

Builder. [Feeling in his pockets] Yes—­no.  It’s on the table.

Camille goes to the writing-table and looks.  That blue thing.

Camille. [Taking it up] Non, Monsieur, this is from the gas.

Builder.  Oh!  Ah!
     [He moves up to the table and turns over papers.  Camille stands
     motionless close by with her eyes fixed on him.]
Here it is!
     [He looks up, sees her looking at him, drops his own gaze, and hands
     her the letter.  Their hands touch.  Putting his hands in his
     pockets]
What made you come to England?

Camille. [Demure] It is better pay, Monsieur, and [With a smile] the
English are so amiable.

Builder.  Deuce they are!  They haven’t got that reputation.

Camille.  Oh!  I admire Englishmen.  They are so strong and kind.

Builder. [Bluffly flattered] H’m!  We’ve no manners.

Camille.  The Frenchman is more polite, but not in the ’eart.

Builder.  Yes.  I suppose we’re pretty sound at heart.

Camille.  And the Englishman have his life in the family—­the Frenchman have his life outside.

Builder. [With discomfort] H’m!

Camille. [With a look] Too mooch in the family—­like a rabbit in a ’utch.

Builder.  Oh!  So that’s your view of us! [His eyes rest on her, attracted but resentful].

Camille.  Pardon, Monsieur, my tongue run away with me.

Builder. [Half conscious of being led on] Are you from Paris?

Camille. [Clasping her hands] Yes.  What a town for pleasure—­Paris!

Builder.  I suppose so.  Loose place, Paris.

Camille.  Loose?  What is that, Monsieur?

Builder.  The opposite of strict.

Camille.  Strict!  Oh! certainly we like life, we other French.  It is not like England.  I take this to Madame, Monsieur. [She turns as if to go] Excuse me.