‘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.’
He replied with glib promptness, with a passage from Beowulf—
‘Hie dygel lond warigeath, wulfhleothu, windige naessas.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘I don’t believe you know!’