"Ah!" I said, smiling, to show my forgiveness. "Well, you were right; and now that I have found you, tell me, do you write or dictate your stories?"
"I dictate them," he said.
"Wonderful!" said I. "Can you really speak all those dreadful Polish words? They are so long and so full of unexpected consonants in curious juxtaposition that they suggest barb-wire rather than literature to the average American mind."
I had a sort of sneaking idea that he would find in juxtaposition a word to match any of his own, and I spoke it with some pride. He did not seem to notice it, however, and calmly responded:
"One gets used to everything, Miss Witherup. I have known men who could speak Russian so sweetly that you'd never notice how full of jays the language is," said he. "And I have heard Englishmen say that after ten years' residence in the United States they got rather to like the dialect of you New-Yorkers, and in some cases to speak it with some degree of fluency themselves."
"What is your favorite novel, Mr.—er—"
"Sienkiewicz," he said, smiling over my hesitation.
"Thanks," said I, gratefully. "But never mind that. I have a toothache, anyhow, and if you don't mind I won't—"
"Don't mention it," he said.