Another person has got into the omnibus; it is growing extremely full.
"I _hate_ last days," says my companion, hitting viciously at the iron balcony rails with his stick, and scowling.
"'The Last Days of Pompeii,'" say I, stupidly, and yet laughing again; not because I think my witticism good, which no human being could do, but because I _must_ laugh for very gladness.

Another longer pause.
(Shall I present the bag the night we arrive, or wait till next day ?) "I have got a riddle to ask you," says Frank, abruptly, and firing the observation off somewhat like a bomb-shell.
"Have you ?" say I, absently.

"I hope it is a good one." "Of course, _you_ must judge of that--'_Mon premier_--'" "It is in _French_!" cry I, with an accent of disgust.
"Well, why should not it be ?" (rather tartly).
"No reason whatever, only that I warn you beforehand I shall not understand it: I always _shiver_ when people tell me a French anecdote; I never know when the point has arrived: I always laugh too soon or too late." He says nothing, but looks black.
"Go on!" say I, laughing.

"We will try, if you like." "_Mon--premier--est--le--premier--de tout_," he says, pronouncing each word very separately and distinctly.

"Do you understand _that_ ?" I nod.