He shaved himself, and was wiping his face on the towel when Celeste
appeared in the doorway. She eyed him, her head inclined roguishly to
one side, the exact attitude of a bird that has suddenly met a
curious and disturbing specimen of insect life.

"M'sieu Zhames, Mees Annesley rides thees morning. You will
pre_pairre_ yourself according,"--and she rattled on in her
absurd native tongue (every other native tongue _is_ absurd to
us, you know!)--

"He is charming and handsome,
With his uniform and saber;
And his fine black eyes
Look love as he rides by!"

while the chef in the kitchen glared furiously at his omelette
souffle, and vowed terrible things to M'sieu Zhames if he looked at
Celeste more than twice a day.

"Good morning," said M'sieu Zhames, hanging up his towel. His face
glowed as the result of the vigorous rubbing it had received.

_"Bon jour!"_--admiringly.

"Don't give me any of your _bong joors,_ Miss,"--stolidly.
"There's only one language for me, and that's English."

"_Merci!_ You Anglaises are _so_ conceit'! How you like
_me_ to teach you French, eh, M'sieu Zhames?"