“Parley-vous Anglais?” inquired Ben. “Une petite peu.” “Huh?” No answer. “I said ‘Comment?’” insisted Ben. She turned to him then and said, while she looked at me, “I said I speak Anglaish juste a little.” “Now, ain’t that grand!” exclaimed Ben, expanding with relief. The mademoiselle smiled at him. “What’s on yer mind? Whatta ya got on fer to-night, this evening, this afternoon, right now?” he inquired, leaning on one foot very nonchalantly—about as nonchalantly as a cow would look leaning on one foot. “Me? For you?” The mademoiselle laughed. “Ou la la!” Ben laughed, too, but retorted, “Sure! Who’d you think I’m tryin’ to fix up—General Pershing?” “Ou la la!” she exclaimed. “You want to keel me?” Ben was getting uneasy. In an aside to me he said something about a horse collar and then returned to the attack with a forceful “Ferget it! Don’t make me burst into hysterics laughin’. What’s the dope? How about it?” “O non, non, non,” she told him sweetly. “C’est impossible! Such a beeg strong man! Ou la la ... non, non!... But your frien’, is he int’rest?” “Naw, he don’t like women—he’s a cherry tree,” says my sidekicker deprecatingly. “Nevaire wis a woman? Nevaire?... Ou la la!” She stared at me as if I were some kind of a strange animal that she had heard stories about but had never seen. “Oh—I sink he ees grand.... I like heem trés bon.” “He won’t go,” declared Ben, beginning to get insulted. “Ferget it now! Don’t be annoyin’ my friend. What about me?” “Nevaire ... nevaire ...” she told him. “But I have zis frien’ ... she will like you.” “Where is she?” demanded Ben. “Is she as good lookin’ as you?” “Yes ... trés chic.... But your frien’?” “Whatta ya say, Leony? This looks pretty good to me.” “Nothing doing here,” I replied with a laugh. “Aw, come on an’ oblige the young lady, won’t ya?” he pleaded. I wished then that I had left when this intercourse began, but it was too late now. “No,” I repeated. “I don’t want to go, Ben. Can’t spare the money now anyway.” “Aw, maybe they won’t want anything but a coupla drinks o’ vin rouge,” he argued. Then he turned to her. “Combien?” “Oo ... vingt-cinq francs ... fine, yes?” Ben exploded. “Twenty-five francs! Fine, hell! Say, do ya think we look like generals?” I thought this was my way out, so I joined in the protest. “We haven’t seen that many francs for a month. You’re too high-priced for us, mam’selle.” But the mademoiselle had allowed for a possible reduction and immediately disclosed that fact when she faced me to say, “Well, for you may-be, I make special price. Ten francs?” “No—no—and again no!” I told her. “It’s not worth that much to me. I wouldn’t give ten francs for the best woman in the world!” I thought this was a pretty convincing bit of hard-boiledness. “No?” she expressed her disbelief, and looked almost hungrily into my eyes. “Ah, but you do not know!... It ees worth plenty more than that!... You see ... you do not like, I geeve you ten francs, yes?”