“And now what would you like to eat?” I asked, picking up the bill of fare.
“May I look?” said she.
I handed her the document, and she studied it at length. I think, indeed, she read it through. In the end she appeared rather bewildered.
“Oh, there is so much. I don’t know. Will you choose, please?”
I made a shift at choosing, and the sympathetic waiter flourished kitchenwards with my commands.
“What is that little green nosegay you wear in your belt, Zabetta?” I inquired.
“Oh, this—it is rosemary. Smell it,” she said, breaking off a sprig and offering it to me.
“Rosemary—that’s for remembrance,” quoted I.
“What does that mean? What language is that?” she asked.
I tried to translate it to her. And then I taught her to say it in English. “Rrosemérri—tsat is forr rremembrrance.”