I could not detach him from my
dreams of the night. He insists upon addressing me by the terms of our
'official' relationship, as if he made it a principle of our intercourse.
'Well, and is your godpapa to congratulate you on your having had a quiet
rest?' was his greeting.
I answered stupidly: 'Oh, yes, thank you,' and would have given worlds
for the courage to reply in French, but I distrusted my accent. At
breakfast, the opportunity or rather the excuse for an attempt, was
offered. His French valet, Francois, waits on him at breakfast. Mr.
Pollingray and his sister asked for things in the French tongue, and, as
if fearing some breach of civility, Mr. Pollingray asked me if I knew
French.
Yes, I know it; that is, I understand it,' I stuttered. Allons, nous
parlerons francais,' said he. But I shook my head, and remained like a
silly mute.
I was induced towards the close of the meal to come out with a few French
words. I was utterly shamefaced. Mr. Pollingray has got the French manner
of protesting that one is all but perfect in one's speaking.
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