“Adovo’s a kushto puro rinkeno kér adoi.” (That is a nice old pretty house there.)
“Avali, rya” (Yes, sir), I replied.
There was a perceptible movement by the woman in the red shawl to keep within ear-shot of us. Mine uncle resumed,—
“Boro kushto covva se ta rakker a jib te kek Gorgio iinella.” (It’s nice to talk a language that no Gentile knows.)
The red shawl was on the trail. “Je crois que ça mord,” remarked my uncle. We allowed our artist guide to pass on, when, as I expected, I felt a twitch at my outer garment. I turned, and the witch eyes, distended with awe and amazement, were glaring into mine, while she said, in a hurried whisper,—
“Wasn’t it Romanes?”
“Avah,” I replied, “mendui rakker sarja adovo jib. Būtikūmi ryeskro lis se denna Gorgines.” (Yes, we always talk that language. Much more genteel it is than English.)
“Te adovo wavero rye?” (And that other gentleman?) with a glance of suspicion at our artist friend.
“Sar tacho” (He’s all right), remarked mine uncle, which I greatly fear meant, when correctly translated in a Christian sense, “He’s all wrong.” But there
is a natural sympathy and intelligence between Bohemians of every grade, all the world over, and I never knew a gypsy who did not understand an artist. One glance satisfied her that he was quite worthy of our society.