“Wa’al, yaas, I guess!”
He could not understand this, for he had not been educated at Robert College, nor had he abided in Vermont. I ask him in French which America he means. He says—
“South America. I have a cousin of my wife’s there, and I would like to know how the country looks.”
“Le nom du cousin de votre femme?” I ask.
“Pierre Moulka Pari Michipopouli. He is like you, Monsieur—quite a traveller.”
Then began a fusillade of questions and rattling replies.
“You have lived in Paris, Monsieur?”
“Jamais!” “Never.” “Been to Genoa?” “Si, Signore.” “Ah, you are English, are you not?” With the intense Turkish negative I respond, “Yok!” “French?” “Non.” “German?” “Nein.” “Sclav?” “Nee.” “Italian?” “No, Signore.” “Ah! Espagnol? You look like one.”
“Pardon, Monsieur, I am not.”
“Well,” said he, taking breath, “will you tell me, Monsieur, where you do come from?”