“We go live in Amerik’ when I li’l boy.”
“And you never learned Italian? I should think your mother would have taught it to you.”
He imitated Beppo’s gesture.
“A word here, a word there. We spik Magyar at home.”
“Talk a little Magyar, Tony. I should like to hear it.”
“What shall I say, signorina?”
“Oh, say anything you please.”
He affected to hesitate while he rehearsed the scraps of language at his command. Latin—French—German—none of them any good—but, thank goodness, he had elected Anglo-Saxon in college; and thank goodness again the professor had made them learn passages by heart. He glanced up with an air of flattered diffidence and rendered, in a conversational inflection, an excerpt from the Anglo-Saxon Bible.
“Ealle gesceafta, heofonas and englas, sunnan and monan, steorran and eorthan, hè gesceop and geworhte on six dagum.”
“It is a very beautiful language. Say some more.”