Pisistratus.—You speak two languages, you say, like a native,—French, I suppose, is one of them?
Stranger.—Yes.
Pisistratus.—Will you teach it?
Stranger (haughtily.)—No. Je suis gentilhomme, which means more or less than a gentleman. Gentilhomme means well born, because free born,—teachers are slaves!
Pisistratus (unconsciously imitating Mr Trevanion.)—Stuff!
Stranger (looks angry, and then laughs.)—Very true; stilts don't suit shoes like these! But I cannot teach: heaven help those I should teach!—Anything else?
Pisistratus.—Anything else!—you leave me a wide margin. You know French thoroughly;—to write as well as speak?—that is much. Give me some address where I can find you,—or will you call on me?
Stranger.—No! Any evening at dusk I will meet you. I have no address to give; and I cannot show these rags at another man's door.
Pisistratus.—At nine in the evening, then, and here in the Strand, on Thursday next. I may then have found something that will suit you. Meanwhile—(slides his purse into the Stranger's hand. N.B.—Purse not very full.)
Stranger, with the air of one conferring a favour, pockets the purse; and there is something so striking in the very absence of all emotion at so accidental a rescue from starvation, that Pisistratus exclaims,—