They said very little, but each knew the mortification in the other's breast.
At last, when the meal was over, Mr Armstrong said-- "I suppose we had better go and get our tickets." "I suppose so." But the _bureau_ was closed for the night, and the two took a solitary walk along the beach.

They walked on further than usual in the clear moonlight, till at last the tutor looked at his watch.
"It's nine o'clock," said he; "we must go back." "Let's take the country road back." "It is a mile longer." "Never mind.

It is our last night." So they struck up by the cliffs, and followed the chalky country road back to Boulogne.
About two miles from the town the cheery lights of a wayside _auberge_ attracted their attention.
"Let us get some coffee here," said Armstrong.
This solitary tavern rejoiced in the name of "Cafe d'Angleterre," but if its owner expected thereby to attract the custom of Mr John Bull, he was singularly mistaken.

The chief customers of the place were labourers and navvies, who by their noisy jargon were evidently innocent of all pretensions to a foreign tongue.
Seeing two strangers, presumably able to pay ready money for what they consumed, the old landlord invited his visitors into the bar parlour, where at his own table he set before them that delightful concoction of chicory and sifted earth which certain provincial Frenchmen call _cafe_.
And being a gregarious and inquisitive old man, and withal proud of his tolerable stock of English, he took the liberty of joining them.
"Inglese ?" inquired he, with a pantomimic shrug.
"Quite so," said the tutor, putting up his glass, and inspecting the fellow carefully.
"This is the `Cafe d'Angleterre,'" said the landlord, "but, _helas_! it is long since the Inglese gentleman come here.

They like too well the great town." "Ah, Boulogne has grown.