"Why, so you are," said Mr. Burton coldly. "I hadn't noticed you."
"How the devil can I make that woman understand that I'm hungry?"
Mr. Burton reflected.
"I'll tell you," he said. "You might open your mouth and point down your throat. Most of these French know the sign language."
He turned away then, and I saw a gleam of triumph in Tish's eye. She leaned over to him.
"She's furious that he can't speak French," she said. "Talk to me in French, and don't mind what I say. The only thing I can remember is a list of a hundred nouns. I'll string them together somehow."
There was a French officer near us, and I saw him watching Tish carefully as the conversation went on. She said afterward that as near as she could make out, Mr. Burton was telling the history of the country we went through, and that when he paused she would say in French: "Handkerchief, fish, trunk, pencil, book, soup," or some such list.
But it impressed Hilda; I could see that.
It was some time before we got out of Paris, and the news we had of Charlie Sands was that he was at the Front, near V, which was held by the enemy. Tish went out and bought a map,
