I could give a few more solid chunks of wisdom, but I forbear out of pity for the reader.
My head is an ant-hill of figures, but I shall proceed to seal up the outlets, and keep the units and tens in their place.
I can tell you the number of square miles in Greece, the height of her mountains, and depth of her rivers, the age of the youngest child in the country, and what the king had for dinner one day; I could even give the number of hairs on the back of a sea turtle, and the price of a bottle of wine, for which you pay ten francs, but I forbear. One afternoon, while we were wandering about Athens and its suburbs, our guide pointed to a low house of most unpretending appearance, and enjoined us to “look at ze house.”
We looked, and asked if there was anything remarkable about it.
“That is ze house of ze ‘Maid of Athens’ of ze Lord Byron.”
Of course we took a second look at the house, and as we did so, we saw at one of the windows the face of an old, very old woman.
“Ah, zere is ze Maid of Athens herself. She look out and see us. You will go in ze house?”
We held a short consultation and decided that we, a party of strangers without introductions in any form, had no right to thrust ourselves into her house and presence.
