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"Parlez-vous Franshay? Ah, oui, oui! Give kith, ole girl!" "You'd better go below, Miss Lashcairn," said the schoolmaster in a low voice. "It's no use talking to an intoxicated man." She knew he was speaking, but she felt mesmerized by Louis, and shook her head impatiently, never taking her eyes for an instant from the boy's dribbling mouth.
All she could see to do was to jump overboard to him and snatch him from the grinning men who were lurching at his side. But as she put her hand on the rail the schoolmaster drew her back. "Thass ri! Come on, ole girl! Marsh Marshella come an' sleep in sh-sh-shtreets! Got no money, ole girl. Marsh Marshella! Parlez vous Franshay? Eh? Ah, oui, oui. Marsh-la! I wan' a woman! Beau-ful wi' shoulders "
"I'm here with you, dear," she told him. "Are you my wife? Wan' wom'n beau-ful whi' shoulders! N'est ce pas? Parlez-vous Franshay, mam-selle? Ah oui, oui." "Louis, you mustn't, mustn't talk that beastly French, please," she sobbed. He thumped on the floor, staring round wildly with glazed eyes. There was a tap at the door. Marcella, glad of any diversion, went and opened it.
After a few minutes she turned and saw the cabman struggling to drag him along. His legs lagged foolishly. "Can't walk, ole girl. Legs all cross-nibbed, ole girl," he moaned. "You're not to talk, Louis," she said calmly. "Talk? Talk? Can't talk. Parlez-vous Franshay, Marsh-shella? Voulez-vous coucher avec moi? Baisez-moi, ma petite !" She faced him suddenly. "Look here, Louis.
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