And next
day I'm dashed if she didn't give me another letter to translate, this
time signed 'Your loving Herbert.' Herbert, I discovered, was a sapper
who'd been transferred to Boulogne and, judging by his hand, was
better with a shovel than a pen. As an amateur in style I couldn't
translate his drivel word for word. Like _Cyrano_, the artist in
me rose supreme, and I manicured and curled his letter, painted and
embroidered it, and nearly finished by signing 'Ronnie' instead of
'Herbert.'
"She was quite surprised when she read the translation.
"_'C'est gentil, n'est-ce-pas_?' said she, kissing it and stuffing it
away in her belt. 'I did not think,' she went on in French, 'that the
dear stupid 'Erbert had so much eloquence.' I saw my error. I had made
a probable of a horse that hadn't previously got an earthly. So, to
adjust things, I refrigerated the next letter--which happened to be
from 'Orace--to the temperature of codfish on an ice block. And the
consequence was that Georgette sulked and would scarcely speak to me
for three whole days.
"The situation, coldly reviewed, appeared to be like this. When 'Orace
or 'Erbert pleased her I got a share of the sunshine, but when their
love-making cooled her displeasure was visited on poor Ronnie. Any
advances on my own part were countered with sales of soap, customers
apparently being rarer than lovers.
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