I can see now the German master—that is to say the stolid Englishman who taught us German—I can see him now reading out a sentence for us to translate into the language.
“My heart,” read he, most solemnly, “my heart is in the Highlands—my heart is not here.”
And there was such pathos, such a tone of exile in his voice, that I was prompted to ask him whether, under the circumstances, he could give his proper attention to the class.
“Might we not shut up our books,” said I—“straight away?”
The look that came into his face then was the look—exaggerated a little perhaps—which comes into the faces of most men when the dignity of their great wisdom is upset. Cruikshank and I, then, were struggling for our dignity against the fire of Bellwattle’s questions. It was no good talking about the evolution of language to her. She would never have understood a word of it. Now, when a man tells a woman anything which she does not understand, she is just as likely to think him a consummate fool. And a man will always be a fool rather than be thought one.
We were trying, therefore, to answer Bellwattle as she would have answered herself. In other words, we were making fools of ourselves in order that Bellwattle should think us wise.
It was here that Cruikshank tempted providence. Doubtless he thought we were getting on so well that we could afford to be generous with our information, for in quite an uncalled-for way he volunteered to tell her more.
“Is there anything else,” said he, “that you want to know?”
She nodded her head and around the corners of her lips I believe I caught the suspicion of a smile.