The traveler threw Taberman a quick, almost furtive glance, and then, turning to the innkeeper, addressed that individual sharply in Italian. The crooked host bowed furiously, made apologetic and deprecatory gestures with the rapidity of a mountebank, skipped about in feverish excitement, and jerked his head more and more frantically. The gentleman—for he seemed one—continued his objurgations unappeased by all these demonstrations, and ended by swearing roundly in English.
"Oh!" exclaimed Taberman involuntarily.
The stranger turned to him.
"I beg your pardon," he said in a curious sing-song voice with a markedly rising inflection, "but this brute has not prepared my luncheon. Do you mind sharing the table with me?"
"Not the least in the world," replied Jerry. "I'm sure it will give me great pleasure."
"Good," said the stranger. "I see you are an American," he flung out as an addition.
"I am," returned Taberman, feeling a simple pride in the fact.
"Thank God I'm not," remarked the stranger. His voice showed no trace of truculence; it was murmured as if to himself. Before Jerry had time to explode the gentleman continued: "I'm English. What does that mean? Celt, Angle, Saxon, and ages of tradition—ages of it. By the bye, you mustn't mind the things I say, you know; your pernicious self-respect would force you to resent them if you did. May I ask your name?"
"My name is Taberman," Jerry replied, struggling with a mingling of indignation, amazement, and amusement, "Jerrold Taberman. I live in Boston."
"Dedham rather," returned the other easily. "I knew a Taberman when I was in college. Curious chap. I— My name's Wrenmarsh, Gordon Wrenmarsh. Fact is, I was an American, but I couldn't stand the place. Bostonians have good manners; but New York is a vile spot. So is Boston; that is— Well, perhaps you see the difference."