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him and very untidy. She laughed a great deal and even when she was not actually laughing she looked as if she were about to do so. Her husband beamed in concert with her. They both appeared as simple and unselfconscious as a pair of small children.
    It seemed that Skelton was trying to explain the American political system to Herr Vogel.
    “Il y a,”
he was saying laboriously,
“deux parties seulement, les Républicaines et les Démocrates. Ces sont du droit—tous les deux. Mais les Républicaines sont plus au droit que les Démocrates. Ça c’est la différence.”
    “Ah oui, je comprend,”
said Herr Vogel. He hurriedly translated the sense into German. Frau Vogel grinned broadly.
    “One hears,” pursued her husband in his clipped French, “that the gangsters (he pronounced it “garngstairs”) have a decisive influence during the elections. Like a party of the center, perhaps?” He had the air of one putting aside frivolous small talk in favor of graver matters.
    The girl giggled helplessly. Her brother drew a deep breathand began to explain with great care, and to Herr Vogel’s evident amazement, that ninety-nine point nine per cent of the people of the United States had never seen a gangster. But his French soon gave out.
    “Il y a, sans doute,”
he was admitting,
“une quantité de … quelque
 …” He could get no farther. “Mary,” he said plaintively, “what the hell’s the word for graft?”
    At that moment fortune favored me. It may be that teaching becomes a habit, that the impulse to instruct will, like hunger or fear, overcome social inhibitions. Out of the corner of my eye I saw the girl shrug her shoulders helplessly; a fraction of a second later the words were out of my mouth.
    “Chantage
is the word you want.”
    They all looked at me.
    “Oh, thanks,” said the girl.
    An eager light came into her brother’s eye.
    “Do you speak French as well as English?”
    “Yes.”
    “Then,” he said, tartly, “do you mind telling this moron here on our left that gangster is spelt with a small ‘g’ in America, and they’re not represented in Congress. At least, not openly. You might add, too, while you’re about it, that all our food doesn’t come out of cans, and that we don’t all live in the Empire State Building.”
    “Certainly.”
    The girl smiled.
    “My brother’s not serious.”
    “Aren’t I, by heaven! He’s an international menace. Someone ought to tell him.”
    The Vogels had been listening to this exchange with bewilderedsmiles on their faces. I translated, as tactfully as possible, into German. They rocked with laughter. Between paroxysms, Herr Vogel explained that it was impossible not to tease Americans. A party of garngstair! The Empire State Building! There were fresh peals of laughter. The Swiss were evidently not quite so naïve as they looked.
    “What’s the matter with him now?” demanded Skelton.
    I explained. He grinned.
    “You wouldn’t think they had any guile in them, would you?” he said, and leaned forward to get a better view of the Vogels. “What are they, Germans?”
    “Swiss, I think.”
    “Pop,” remarked the girl, “looks exactly like Tenniel’s illustration of Tweedledum and Tweedledee. Get those pants!”
    The object of these criticisms was regarding us anxiously. He addressed himself to me.
    “Die jungen Leute haben unseren kleinen Spass nicht übel genommen?”
    “He says,” I explained to the Skeltons, “that he hopes he hasn’t offended you.”
    Young Skelton looked startled.
    “Heavens, no. Look—” He turned to the Vogels.
“Nous sommes très amusés. Sie sind sehr liebenswürdig,”
he said heartily. Then: “Hell, tell him, will you?”
    I did so. There was a great deal of nodding and smiling. Then the Vogels began to talk between themselves.
    “How many languages do you speak?” said Skelton.
    “Five.”
    He laughed disgustedly.
    “Then would you explain very carefully,” put in the girl,“just how you