“How,” said I, “do you understand the language of the roads?”
“As little as I do Armenian,” said the man in black; “but I understand look and tone.”
“So do I, perhaps,” retorted Belle; “and, to tell you the truth, I like your tone as little as your face.”
“For shame!” said I; “have you forgot what I was saying just now about the duties of hospitality? You have not yet answered my question,” said I, addressing myself to the man, “with respect to your visit.”
“Will you permit me to ask who you are?”
“Do you see the place where I live?” said I.
“I do,” said the man in black, looking around.
“Do you know the name of this place?”
“I was told it was Mumpers’ or Gypsies’ Dingle,” said the man in black.
“Good,” said I; “and this forge and tent, what do they look like?”