Paul retied the lace. He looked dimly at the Englishman--who, I
honestly believe, had not so much as noticed or recalled a single
person in the room but himself all during the baked apple affair. It is
a kind of concentration peculiar to the British.
"Put down your foot, man!"
"Quintod!" Paul said, as if using rare syllables of opprobrium:
"Quidhetch! Vassenoy!" He moved his foot this way and that, eying it.
Even the Englishwoman was staring at it now, in some shock. After all,
it was on her table, twenty inches from her picklelike nose, and not a
victual.