Therefore John was not to blame when, after waiting the
scheduled six minutes, he arrived to find the other two still in
the thick of it. Either Colin was not haunting up to form (which was
likely, as he had been over-fed lately) or George's French (which was
never made in the place where they make marriages) had scandalised
Madame.
She stood in the door like some historical personage, probably the
Sphinx, and repeated a guttural kind of incantation while George
stretched his ears until they stood out more than usual in a struggle
to understand.
"Rotten patois some of these people speak," he said. "I believe she
has a room, though something's biting her. Likely enough Fritz went
off with all her furniture; but I've already explained twenty times
that that doesn't matter. _Ecoutez, Madame._ We only want a room.
_Chambre-a-coucher._ We can furnish it. We have three beds. _Trois
lits._ _Trois_ stretcher-beds sent over from _Angleterre_. _A la
gare._ We've just seen them. _Trois lits nous avons._ Three beds."
"Beds!" Madame pounced on the word. "_C'est cela!_ No beds,
_Monsieur_. _Je n'en ai pas.
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