"_Hoch! Hoch! Hurrá!_" he cries, by way of response, waving his hat.
Then he sings loudly, "And--bless the Prince of WALES!" After which,
being rather proud of his mastery of Cockneyisms, he changes the
accent, still singing, "Blaass the Prince of WAILES!" which he
considers his _chef d'oeuvre_ as an imitation of a genuine Cockney
tone, to which it bears exactly such resemblance as does a scene
of ordinary London life drawn by a French artist. Then he says,
seriously--"_Eh bien! allons! C'est fixé_--it is fixed. We meet
Victoria, _et alors, par_ London, Chatham & Dover, from Reims _viâ_
Calais, _très bien,--train d'onze heures précises,--bien entendu. J'y
suis. Ihr Diener! Adios! A reverderla! Addio, amico caro!_" Then he
utters something which is between a sneeze and a growl, supposed to
be a term of endearment in the Russian tongue. Finally he says in
English, "Good-bye!"

His hat is on in a jiffy (which I take to be the hundredth part of a
second) and he is down the stairs into the hall, and out at the door
"like a flying light comedian" with an airy "go" about him, which
recalls to my mind the running exits of CHARLES WYNDHAM in one of
his lightest comedy-parts. "_Au revoir! Pour Jeudi alors!_" I hear
him call this out in the hall; the door bangs as if a firework had
exploded and blown my vivacious friend up into the air, and he has
gone.

"_Jeudi alors_" arrives, and I am at Victoria for the eleven o'clock
Express to the minute, having decided that this is the best, shortest,
and cheapest holiday I can take. I've never yet travelled with
my excellent French friend DAUBINET. I am to be his guest; all
responsibility is taken off my shoulders except that of my ticket and
luggage, and to travel without responsibility is in itself a novelty.