“Why scarlet?” said the man in black. “Is it because Gypsies blush like scarlet?”
“Gypsies never blush,” said I; “but Gypsies’ cloaks are scarlet.”
“I should almost take you for a Gypsy,” said the man in black, “but for—”
“For what?” said I.
“But for that same lesson in Armenian, and your general knowledge of languages; as for your manners and appearance I will say nothing,” said the man in black, with a titter.
“And why should not a Gypsy possess a knowledge of languages?” said I.
“Because the Gypsy race is perfectly illiterate,” said the man in black; “they are possessed, it is true, of a knavish acuteness, and are particularly noted for giving subtle and evasive answers—and in your answers, I confess, you remind me of them; but that one of the race should acquire a learned language like the Armenian, and have a general knowledge of literature, is a thing che io non credo afatto.”
“What do you take me for?” said I.
“Why,” said the man in black, “I should consider you to be a philologist, who, for some purpose, has taken up a Gypsy life; but I confess to you that your way of answering questions is far too acute for a philologist.”
“And why should not a philologist be able to answer questions acutely?” said I.