He turned towards me with a look of-positive affection, on seeing I knew German, and we both began to talk together at once with freedom.
“What's the boy saying?” cried my father, as he caught the sounds of some glib speech of mine. “Don't let him bore you with his bad French, Steinmetz.”
“He is charming me with his admirable German,” said the Baron. “I can't tell when I have met a more agreeable companion.”
This was, of course, a double flattery, for my German was very bad, and my knowledge on any subject no better; but the fact did not diminish the delight the praise afforded me.
“Do you know German, Digby?” asked my father.
“A little,—a very little, sir.”
“The fellow would say he knew Sanscrit if you asked him,” whispered Hotham to Eccles; but my sharp ears overheard him.
“Come, that's better than I looked for,” said my father. “What do you say, Eccles? Is there stuff there?”
“Plenty, Sir Roger; enough and to spare. I count on Digby to do me great credit yet.”
“What career do you mean your son to follow?” asked the Italian, while he nodded to me over his wine-glass in most civil recognition.