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"Bon jour, m'sieu," he began, raising his uniform cap and bowing to Mr Austin, who met him at the gangway. "What chip dis is, eh?" "This, sir, is His Britannic Majesty's sloop Daphne. What brig is that?" "That, sair, is the Franch brigue of war Vestale; and I am Jules Le Breton, her first leeftant, at your serveece. Are you le capitaine of this vaisseau?"
When he had gone, Sven Anderssen turned toward Lady Greystoke the idiotic expression that had masked his thoughts had fallen away, and in its place was one of craft and cunning. "Hay tank Ay ban a fool," he said. "Hay ben the fool. Ay savvy Franch." Jane Clayton looked at him in surprise. "You understood all that he said, then?" Anderssen grinned. "You bat," he said.
The visitor by the fire laughed. "He's up in city slum talk," he said. "And he's learned something of French, too, knocking around with the boys in school." "I can talk Franch like a native," asserted the boy. "And what else?" asked the man by the fire. "Any old thing!" boasted the child. "They keep me at books all the time. I'm glad I'm with grandmother in the hills.
'Wait, I'll read you one. 'Then you know English? 'A leetle. Bot the one I shall read is in Franch. And then she read out, in an enchanting voice, one of his own French sonnets. 'That isn't bad, she added. 'Do you think it hopelessly bad? 'It shows promise, perhaps when you read it. 'It is strange, though, that it should have been written by a man who had never been in love. 'Imagination!
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