But then, with a little cry of vexation, he caught up the pocket-book from the table and darted a quick glance of suspicion at me.

I was more amazed than angry, and my smile caused him confusion, for he saw that I had detected his fear.
Thinking him punished enough for his rudeness (although it might find some excuse in the indifferent honesty of many who frequented the roads in the guise of travellers) I relieved him by resuming our conversation, saying with a smile, "In truth my French is a school-boy's French.

I can tell the parts of the verb _J'aime, tu aimes, il aime;_ it goes so far, sir, and no farther." "Not far in speech, though often far enough in act," he laughed.
"Truly," said I with a sigh.
"Yet I swear you do yourself injustice.

Is there no more ?" "A little more of the same sort, sir." And, casting about for another phrase with which to humour him, I took the first that came to my tongue; leaning my arms on the table (for I had finished eating), I said with a smile, "Well, what say you to this?
This is something to know, isn't it?
_Je viens, tu viens, il vient._" As I live, he sprang to his feet with a cry of alarm! His hand darted to his breast where he had stowed the pocket-book; he tore it out and examined the fastening with furious haste and anxiety.

I sat struck still with wonder; the man seemed mad.