Of late the young man had affected a kind of Doric in his speech, the better to accord with an appearance that grew more and more rustical. But as soon as the man heard the tone of his voice a smile played furtively upon his lips.
Again were those observing eyes directed upon Gervase and Anne. There was neither unkindness nor impertinence in that whimsical gaze. It was hardly more than the sympathetic curiosity of a subtle mind in the presence of a mystery it is tempted to solve. But to Gervase at least it brought a sense of discomfort. The man’s whole aspect made him feel that here was a mental power, a faculty of divination far beyond the common.
“My friend,” said the man, with a disarming air of courtesy, “if I may say so, you perform so choicely upon the flute that you should seldom go wanting a meal.”
“Ah, sir, we lack one sometimes,” said Gervase.
“There should be no occasion to do so this morning at least. Persons of taste abound in this old university town.”
“That is good news, sir,” said Gervase guardedly.
“And had I been bred at this ancient seat of learning I myself might have claimed to be of their number.” So soft and gentle was the tone of the man’s voice that Gervase was set more than ever upon his guard.
The young man tried to show by a gesture that the conversation was being carried above the plane on which his bucolic wits were accustomed to move. But unhappily its very politeness defeated the object in view. No rustic since the world began had ever been able to convey a deprecation so delicate in a manner so urbane.
The man could not forbear to be amused. “Well, sir,” said he, “let me make myself clearer. May I, as a humble lover of the arts, offer a breakfast to you and your friend in order to celebrate your genius upon the flute?”
“Certainly, sir, you may,” said Gervase, with grateful alacrity, and casting all prudence to the wind.