She said this in Spanish, a smooth, sing-song Spanish learned in South America, to which her foreign accent contributed a certain childish charm. Then she added coquettishly:
"I know you, Captain. Always the same!… That affair of the rose at
Pompeii was very well done…. It was just like you."
The grave lady of the glasses, finding herself forgotten, and unable to understand a word of the new language employed in the conversation, now spoke aloud, rolling her eyes in her enthusiasm.
"Oh, Spain!…" she said in English. "The land of knightly gentlemen…. Cervantes … Lope!… The Cid!…"
She stopped hunting for more celebrities. Suddenly she seized the sailor's arm, exclaiming as energetically as though she had just made a discovery through the little door of the coach. "Calderon de la Barca!" Ferragut saluted her. "Yes, Señora." After that the younger woman thought that it was necessary to present her companion.
"Doctor Fedelmann…. A very wise woman distinguished in philology and literature."
After clasping the doctor's hand, Ferragut indiscreetly set himself to work to gather information.
"The Señora is German?" he said in Spanish to the younger one.
The gold-rimmed spectacles appeared to guess the question and shot a restless gleam at her companion.
"No," she replied. "My friend is a Russian, or rather a Pole."