“Jag kan ikke tale Norsk!—I can’t speak Norwegian”—was all I could say, at which she laughed more joyously than ever, and rattled off a number of excellent jokes, no doubt at my helpless condition. Indeed, I strongly suspected, from a familiar word here and there, that she was making love to me out of mere sport, though she was guarded enough not to make any intelligible demonstration to that effect. At last I got out my vocabulary, and as we jogged quietly along the road, by catching a word now and then, and making her repeat what she said very slowly, got so far as to construct something of a conversation.
“What is your name, skën Jumfru?” I asked.
“Maria,” was the answer.
“A pretty name; and Maria is a very pretty girl.”
She tossed her head a little scornfully, as much as to say Maria was not to be fooled by flattery.
“What is your name?” said Maria, after a pause.
“Mine? Oh, I have forgotten mine.”
“Are you an Englishman?”
“No.”
“A Frenchman?”