In a noble Roman room, on cushions, with crossed legs, squatted Zamore, eating candies out a satin bag.
"Oh!" exclaimed the incipient philosopher, "what do you call this thing?"
"Me no ting—me gubbernor," blubbered Zamore.
Gilbert had never before seen a negro. The uneasy glance which he turned up to Sylvie caused that lively girl to burst into a peal of laughter.
Grave and motionless as an idol, Zamore kept on diving with his paw in the bag of sweetmeats and munching away.
At this moment the door opened to give admission to Steward Cranche and a tailor to take the measures of Gilbert.
"Do not pull him about too much," said the steward.
"Oh, I am done," said the knight of the thimble; "the costume of Sganarelle is a loose one, and we never bother about a fit."
"Oh, he will look fine as Sganarelle," said Sylvie. "And is he to have the high hat like Mother Goose's?"
Gilbert did not hear the reply, as he pushed aside the tailor and would not help any more preparations. He did not know that Sganarelle was a comic character in a popular play, but he saw that it was a ludicrous one, and he was enlightened further by Sylvie's laughter. She departed with tailor and steward, leaving him alone with the black boy, who continued to roll his eyes and devour the bonbons.