“Not a soul. You shall have him all to yourself. To tell you the truth, I expect everybody will feel the same as you do about that. The Rev. Mr. Jackson didn’t seem very keen on showing off his ancient Greek.”
Colonel Beresford, when Dr. Whitty called on him, confessed to a slight, a very slight, acquaintance with the Russian language.
“I took it up,” he said, “a long time ago when I was stationed in Edinburgh. There was a Russian scare on at the time and everybody thought there was going to be a war. I happened to hear that there were a couple of Russian medical students in the University, and I thought if I picked up a little of the language I might fall in for a staff appointment. I’ve nearly forgotten it all now, and I didn’t make any special study of religious terms at the time, but I’ll do the best I can for you. You’ve got all the other languages you say.”
“I think so. I have”—the doctor took a list from his pocket—“French, Miss Lizzie Glynn. She was educated at a first-rate convent, and speaks French fluently. Greek (ancient and modern), the Rev. Mr. Jackson. German and allied tongues, Mrs. Jackson. Italian, Spanish and Portuguese, Father Henaghan. That, with your Russian, makes a tolerably complete list.”
“I’d no idea,” said the colonel, “that we were such a polyglot in Ballintra. By the way, you haven’t got Norwegian.”
“No,” said the doctor, “I haven’t and when you come to think of it, a sailor is more likely to be that, or a Swede, than any thing else. Can you speak it?”
“Not a word.”
“Do you happen to have a dictionary, Norwegian or Swedish, in the house?”
“No.”
“That’s a pity. I’d have tried to work it up a little myself if you had.”