“I wish you could tell me what it is,” I said.
“Willingly,” said Ivanhoe. “You take a pail of water and a piece of iron; you make the iron red-hot and plunge it into the water; at first the water fizzles, but when the iron is cold the water is still; you put the water into
bottles and drink one every day with your dinner. It always cures a cold.”
“I must try it,” I said. But I don’t think I shall.
“Surely you know how to cure colds in England, where you all live in a perpetual fog and everyone is so rich that they can afford to make experiments?”
“We have poor people also in England.”
But Ivanhoe knew better. “No,” he said, smiling indulgently, “that is your English modesty; there are no poor people in your country.”
“I assure you I have seen plenty. And as for modesty, I don’t care very much about modesty—not for myself; I don’t mind it in others.”
“Ah! but you English are so practical.”
“You have great men in England,” said the corporal. “Chamberlain, Lincoln, you call him il presidente, and Darwin and—”