conversation in French, the while he purchased something "pour la toilette."
To all this "jabber"—as he was disposed linguistically to pronounce it—Mr. Bouncer listened as in a dream, and as though he were in a foreign land, and not in the midst of the great roaring Babel that he had figuratively termed "the little village."
He sat, tucked up in his wrapper, with the French unreadable newspaper spread out over his knees, while the silent perruquier worked vigorously at his hair, with a couple of brushes, almost dancing round him, in a rapid movement, very different to the slow, ponderous motion and tedious loquacity of Mr. Quickfall, of Barham.
"Of the brace of barbers that I have bagged to-day," thought Mr. Bouncer, "give me Mossoo."
Then he heard Madame calling "Alphonse! Alphonse!" and Mr. Bouncer thought to himself, "this Alphonse is, doubtless, an assistant, who will enter all grimace and smirk."
But a patter of little feet upon the floor soon showed him that "Alphonse" was a small, white, quaintly cropped poodle, who at once trotted up to Mr. Bouncer, and looked knowingly in his face, apparently seeing, with an intelligent glance, that his master's customer was a friend to dogs.
