“Not too quickly, my son. The university of Oxford is about a day’s journey from the centre of the world.”
“Then, sir, it must be somewhere in Castile.”
“Why Castile, my son?”
“Madrid is in the province of Castile, and that, I believe, is generally reckoned to be the centre of the world.”
“My young companion, I sit corrected,” said the occupant of the stool, with a humble air that went not at all well with his countenance. “When I was young I was always taught that the centre of the world was London; but I dare say the world has moved on a little since those days.”
“London, sir!” said I; for here was another barbarous word I had never heard before. “I pray you tell me in what part of our peninsula is London.”
Instead of replying to this question, the occupant of the stool began to purse his lips in an odd manner, and to rub his chin with his forefinger.
“By my soul,” he said, “that is a plaguy odd question to address to an English gentleman!”
“Doubtless it may be,” said I, “to one who has travelled much, and knows our great peninsula from one end to the other; but I confess I never left my native province before this morning.”
“Never left your province before this morning!” said this strange person, laughing softly. “Is it conceivable? If you had kept it close it would have required great wisdom to suspect it. Your mind has been finely-trained, my young companion, and your air is so finished that I should like to see it at the court of Sophy.”