I did not immediately answer, and Sylvia's quick mind divined the reason of my reluctance.
"Let us talk en français," she said; "that will not disturb this good man, and he can go to sleep if he likes."
"Très bien," I said, "parlons nous en français."
"Il serait charmant," said she; "j'aime la belle langue."
The old man turned his head from one to the other of us; all his placidity vanished, and he exclaimed,—
"Ciel! Voilà les anges l'un et l'autre qui vient parler ma chère langue."
"Good gracious!" exclaimed Sylvia, "I thought he was Irish."
The patient now took the talking business into his own hands, and in his dear language told us his tale of woe. It was a very ordinary tale, and its dolefulness was relieved by the old man's delight at finding people who could talk to him like Christians. One of his woes was that he had not been long enough married to his wife to teach her much French.
"I wish," interpolated Sylvia to me, "that we had kept on in English. It would have been much more satisfactory. I expect one of the other sisters will be here before very long, and before she comes I wish you would tell me how you are getting on with your book. I have been thinking about it, ever and ever so much."
"I am not getting on at all," said I; "without you there will be no book."