she was ill.

I could understand very little of their magpie chatter, but it was
a proud moment. Alone, unaided, a stranger in a strange land, I
had gained the attention of children while speaking in a foreign
tongue. Oh, if I had only left the door open that Salemina might
have witnessed this triumph! But hearing steps in the distance, I
said hastily, "Asseyez-vous, mes enfants, tout-de-suite!" My tone
was so authoritative that they obeyed instantly, and when the
teacher entered it was as calm as the millennium.

We rambled through the village for another hour, dined at a quaint
little inn, gave a last look at the monument, and left for Geneva
at seven o'clock in the pleasant September twilight. Arriving a
trifle after ten, somewhat weary in body and slightly anxious in
mind, I followed Salemina into the tiny cake-shop across the street
from the station. She returned the tumbler, and the man, who
seemed to consider it an unexpected courtesy, thanked us volubly.
I held out my hand and reminded him timidly of the one franc fifty
centimes.

He inquired what I meant. I explained. He laughed scornfully. I
remonstrated. He asked me if I thought him an imbecile. I
answered no, and wished that I knew the French for several other
terms nearer the truth, but equally offensive. Then we retired,
having done our part, as good Americans, to swell the French
revenues, and that was the end of our day in Pestalozzi-town; not
the end, however, of the lemonade glass episode, which was always a
favourite story in Salemina's repertory