“Smelts, Brian,” corrected Stargarde. “He doesn’t understand French,” she said kindly to the woman.
“Beg pardon, I do; once got a prize at school for extensive knowledge of the language. Needn’t tell her I was the only one in the class,” in a lower tone.
“And you have ducks, and chickens, and cherry bark tied up in neat, little bundles, haven’t you?” Stargarde went on; “also woolen socks and sarsaparilla. You must get some of the latter, Brian. Hannah will make you some tea. She says it is good for the blood.”
“Give me ten bundles, madam,” he said obligingly.
“I have only vive,” said the Frenchwoman, raising her eyes just long enough to glance at the man, who seemed to be a very bold kind of monster to her.
“Very well, give me the five; and in addition those little brooms. They will do for Hannah to sweep her hearth.”
“I buy zem for myself, zur,” said the woman hastily. “We make no brooms; ’tis the Neegurs that does.”
“Ah,” politely. “I understand. Infra dignitatem. Thank you, madam,” and he put his parcel of sarsaparilla under his arm. “Whom does she remind you of?” he asked Stargarde as they went on.
“Vivienne, naturally; but Brian, the Chezzencook people are not the same as the Digby and Yarmouth French, are they?”
“No; a different lot. Came here at another time. French though.”