'That is a piece of Daisy's foolishness, doctor. It contains a gipsy, whom she induced me to hire for some fortune-telling rubbish.'
'Oh, how sweet! how jolly!' cried a mixed chorus of young voices. 'A real gipsy, Mrs Pansey?' and the good lady was besieged with questions.
'She is cunning and dirty enough to be genuine, my dears. Some of you may know her. Mother Jael!'
'Aroint thee, witch!' cried Dr Graham, 'that old beldam; oh, she can "pen dukherin" to some purpose. I have heard of her; so have the police.'
'What language is that?' asked Miss Whichello, who came up at this moment with a smile and a word for all; 'it sounds like swearing.'
'I'd like to see anyone swear here,' said Mrs Pansey, grimly.
'Set your mind at rest, dear lady, I was speaking Romany—the black language—the calo jib which the gipsies brought from the East when they came to plunder the hen-coops of Europe.'
'Do you mean to tell me that those creatures have a language of their own?' asked Miss Whichello, disbelievingly.
'Why not? I daresay their ancestors made bricks on the plain of Shinar, and were lucky enough to gain a language without the trouble of learning it.'
'You allude to the Tower of Babel, sir!' said Mrs Pansey, with a scowl.