There was much ceremony when they departed--much French _politesse_,
and many charming little attentions were paid. Marie assisted
Monsieur on with his coat, which, being British, he strongly objected
to. Berthe brought Madame a beautiful chrysanthemum from the vase
on one of the vacant tables and, when Sally proposed wearing it,
insisted upon pinning it in herself, her eyes dancing with delight
as she stood back to admire its effect.
Berthe and Marie stood at the bottom of the stairs as they ascended.
"Au'voir, Monsieur--merci--au'voir, Madame."
Now it was like a duet of little cuckoo clocks, both in unison, both
in time, both with that fascinating touch of the nasal Parisienne
voice. Sally was enchanted with it all.
Last of all there was Madame--Madame smiling--Madame rubbing her fat,
homely hands together--Madame's twinkling brown eyes dancing upon
the two of them.
"You had a good dinner, Monsieur?"
"Excellent, thank you, Madame."
"Oh, Monsieur;" she caught Traill's arm and detained him as Sally
went out in front. "Oh--monsieur--elle est charmante!" Her eyes
lifted and her hands carried the words upwards--to heaven, if need
be.
Traill threw back his head and laughed. "Madame--vous etes trop
romanesque pour ce monde."
"Ah, non, Monsieur--je suis ce que je suis. Je suis trop grosse
peut-etre, mais pas trop romanesque. Au'voir, Monsieur--merci--prenez
garde d'elle, Monsieur." She held up a fat warning finger. "Au'voir,
Madame. A bientot."
They left her bowing there against the background of the old bottle
glass, lit yellow by the light within, her smiles following them down
the street.
"Well--there you are," said Traill, as they walked away. "That's the
terrible, shameless Bohemian life in anarchist quarters. What a
thing it is to be thankful for, that only the English manners _are_
manners, and couldn't afford to show their face in Soho."