"Meesteh Drew all tam rid doze poetry; so Ah say tow tich me doze lang-widge mo' betteh," she explained. "Ah was tich tow rid doze Anglish by ma home tow Denmahk, but Ah leahn tow spik eet off ma black maid tow St. Croix. She spik ve'y nize, but so sho'tly, Ah unnehstahnd heh not alwis."
"Shortly?" repeated Hetty, in doubt.
"Fastly, rapidly," explained Lieutenant Stromberg, looking up from his cards. "Ma sisteh's Anglish iss only a second coosin off das real Anglish—second coosin twice remove'—t'r-rough Denmar-r-k and Afr-r-rica." Lieutenant Stromberg knew his r's.
"I think she speaks beautifully, with such opportunities," Hetty replied, with spirit.
Miss Stromberg beamed her thanks.
"Ah t'ank yo' exceedin'," she said. She looked at her book, sighed, looked up again, and continued: "But doze poetry mek me tow haf doze sadness—me." She sighed again and shook her head. "Yo' lak doze poetry?"
"Not always," Hetty answered frankly.
The questioner laid the book hesitatingly on the table, and her hands drifted together in her lap.
"Ah t'ink das iss mos' coh'ect," she agreed. "Eet iss not alwis possible tow lak eet when yo' s'all t'ink off ot'er t'ings—doze noise' and stohms," she explained.
"Yet yo' s'all desire to heah doze noise' ofer once mo' when yo' rich St. Croix," said the lieutenant, without looking up from his game. "'Ah, doze beau-tiful noise'!' yo' s'all say—'so poetical!'" He laughed mischievously.