Place.

"He doesn't know Theophile! Why, he doesn't know any one! He doesn't
know anything!" Then, sensible of a small solecism in her manners,
Bebelle twisted her right hand in a leg of the Corporal's Bloomer
trousers, and, laying her cheek against the place, kissed it.

"Monsieur Theophile, I believe?" said the Englishman to the Corporal.

"It is I, monsieur."

"Permit me." Mr. The Englishman shook him heartily by the hand and
turned away. But he took it mighty ill that old Monsieur Mutuel in his
patch of sunlight, upon whom he came as he turned, should pull off his
cap to him with a look of pleased approval. And he muttered, in his own
tongue, as he returned the salutation, "Well, walnut-shell! And what
business is it of _yours_?"

Mr. The Englishman went on for many weeks passing but disturbed evenings
and worse nights, and constantly experiencing that those aforesaid
windows in the houses of Memory and Mercy rattled after dark, and that he
had very imperfectly nailed them up. Likewise, he went on for many weeks
daily improving the acquaintance of the Corporal and Bebelle. That is to
say, he took Bebelle by the chin, and the Corporal by the hand, and
offered Bebelle sous and the Corporal cigars, and even got the length of
changing pipes with the Corporal and kissing Bebelle. But he did it all
in a shamefaced way, and always took it extremely ill that Monsieur
Mutuel in his patch of sunlight should note what he did. Whenever that
seemed to be the case, he always growled in his own tongue, "There you
are again, walnut-shell! What business is it of yours?"