“Yes,” replied Narcisse, “I believe you co’ect ag’in, Mistoo Itchlin. ’Tis but since yeste’d’y that I jus appen to hea’ Dr. Seveeah d’op a saying ’esembling to that. Yesseh, she’s a v’ey ’emawkable, Mistoo Itchlin.”
“Is that what Dr. Sevier said?” Richling began to fear an ambush.
“No, seh. What the Doctah say—’twas me’ly to ’emawk in his jocose way—you know the Doctah’s lill callous, jocose way, Mistoo Itchlin.”
He waved either hand outward gladsomely.
“Yes,” said Richling, “I’ve seen specimens of it.”
“Yesseh. He was ve’y complimenta’y, in fact, the Doctah. ’Tis the trooth. He says, ‘She’ll make a man of Witchlin if anythin’ can.’ Juz in his jocose way, you know.”
The Creole’s smile had returned in concentrated sweetness. He stood silent, his face beaming with what seemed his confidence that Richling would be delighted. Richling recalled the physician’s saying concerning this very same little tale-bearer,—that he carried his nonsense on top and his good sense underneath.
“Dr. Sevier said that, did he?” asked Richling, after a time.
“’Tis the vehbatim, seh. Convussing to yo’ ’eve’end fwend. You can ask him; he will co’obo’ate me in fact. Well, Mistoo Itchlin, it supp’ise me you not tickle at that. Me, I may say, I wish I had a wife to make a man out of me.”
“I wish you had,” said Richling. But Narcisse smiled on.