ldier: 'You leave it to me, Bill. I know the lingo.
_Garcon, Je suis._'"

I laughed. Madame looked at me and at W., my fellow-lodger, and
demanded a translation of the joke. I referred the matter to W. His
French was, if possible, worse than mine, but it was he who had
started the subject. "Ham," I said to him, "is _jambon_. Go ahead."
W. went ahead, but "high" in the sense he wanted did not seem to be
in the dictionary. I had a try when W. gave up and began with an
explanation of the cockney's difficulty with the letter "h." Madame
smiled uncomprehendingly. W., who had studied the dictionary while I
talked, made a fresh start at "_je suis_." "_Je suis_--I am.
_Jambon_--ham, _c'est a dire ''am' a Londres_.'" We worked away all
through that meal. At supper, Madame, still full of curiosity, set us
at it again.

We pursued that joke for several days until we were all exhausted,
and Madame, politely, said she saw the point, though she did not and
never will. I do not believe that joke can be translated into French.
Months afterwards I had as fellow-lodger a man who spoke French well
and fluently. I urged him to try if he could make Madame understand.
He failed.

Madame was most hospitable. She was neither worried nor cross when we
asked friends to dine with us. Indeed she was pleased. But she liked
due notice so that she could devote proper attention to _la cuisine_.

M., who was at that time with a cavalry brigade, used to come and
spend a night or two with me sometimes. He was a special favourite
with Madame and she used to try to load him with food when he was
leaving. One very wet day in late autumn, Madame produced a large
brown-paper bag and filled it with pears. She presented it to M. with
a pretty speech of which he did not understand a word. M. was
seriously embarrassed. He liked Madame and did not want to hurt her
feelings; but he had before him a railway journey of some hours and
then five miles on horseback. It is impossible to carry a brown-paper
bag full of pears on a horse through a downpour of rain. The bag
gets sopped at once and the pears fall through it. M. pushed the bag
back to Madame.

"_Merci, merci_," he said. "_Mais non, pas possible._"

Madame explained that the pears were deliciously ripe, which was
true.

M. said, "_A cheval, Madame, je voyage a cheval_."

Madame pushed the bag into his hands. He turned to me.

"For goodness' sake explain to her--politely, of course--that I can't
tak