"Ha," thought I, "she's gauging my capacity to help her," and added aloud, bitterly reminiscent, "The life of a yokel, madam."
"You have read much?"
"Yes, I'm fond of reading. It passes the long winter nights."
"And no doubt you know by heart the merry gests of Robin Hood and the admirable exploits of Claude Duval?"
I felt her eyes on me in the dark, and longed for the sun so that I could see the blue glint in them.
"No such rubbish, indeed," said I hotly. It was a slight on Master Bloggs, droning away yonder at the fall of Troy, not to say the sweet old vicar.
"What then?"
"Livy and Caesar, and stuff like that, but mainly Virgil."
"Then it's very, very curious," she whispered emphatically.
No doubt yokel blood ought not to run like wine under the mighty pulse of Virgil, and I sourly asked, "What's curious, madam? Old Bloggs has nothing to teach except Latin, and I happened to take to it. Why curious?"