This was at eight, and at nine, leaving Francesca in bed, we were
in the station at Geneva. Finding that we had time to spare, we
went across the street and bargained for an in-transit luncheon
with one of those dull native shopkeepers who has no idea of
American-French.

Your American-French, by the way, succeeds well enough so long as
you practise, in the seclusion of your apartment, certain assorted
sentences which the phrase-book tells you are likely to be needed.
But so far as my experience goes, it is always the unexpected that
happens, and one is eternally falling into difficulties never
encountered by any previous traveller.

For instance, after purchasing a cold chicken, some French bread,
and a bit of cheese, we added two bottles of lemonade. We managed
to ask for a glass, from which to drink it, but the man named two
francs as the price. This was more than Salemina could bear. Her
spirit was never dismayed at any extravagance, but it reared its
crested head in the presence of extortion. She waxed wroth. The
man stood his ground. After much crimination and recrimination I
threw myself into the breach.

"Salemina," said I, "I wish to remark, first: That we have three
minutes to catch the train. Second: That, occupying the position
we do in America,--you the member of a School Board and I the
Honorary President of a Froebel Society,--we cannot be seen
drinking lemonade from a bottle, in a public railway carriage; it
would be too convivial. Third: You do not understand this
gentleman. You have studied the language longer than I, but I have