"But after dinner I may not care to sing." She spoke in German.
He was not expecting this tongue; besides, his German had never been a finished product. For all that, he made a passable reply.
"You speak as many languages as a Swiss hotel-concierge."
"I wish I did. My mother had one idea in regard to my youth: I should speak four languages and eventually become a great diplomat. As it stands, I speak indifferent French and German, and am not in the diplomatic service. My mother had one of the loveliest voices. It was a joy to hear her speak, now Italian, now German, now French. She understood that in these days one does not travel far with Greek and Latin, though they come in handy when you strike old inscriptions. We were great comrades. It was rare fun to go with her on an antique-hunting expedition. They never fooled her nor got the better of her in a bargain."
She liked the way he spoke of his mother.
"But you," he said; "you are not Italian."
She smiled.
"You are neither French, German nor English."
She still smiled, but to the smile she added a gentle shrug.
"You are American—like myself!" he hazarded.