I should like to hear it.' 'What shall I say, signorina ?' 'Oh, say anything you please.' He affected to hesitate while he rehearsed the scraps of language at his command.

Latin--French--German--none of them any good--but, thank goodness, he had elected Anglo-Saxon in college; and thank goodness again the professor had made them learn passages by heart.

He glanced up with an air of flattered diffidence and rendered, in a conversational inflection, an excerpt from the Anglo-Saxon Bible.
'_Ealle gesceafta, heofonas and englas, sunnan and monan, steorran and eorthan, he gesceop and geworhte on six dagum._' 'It is a very beautiful language.

Say some more.' He replied with glib promptness, with a passage from Beowulf-- '_Hie dygel lond warigeath, wulfhleothu, windige naessas._' 'What does that mean ?' Tony looked embarrassed.
'I don't believe you know!' 'It means--_scusi_, signorina, I no like to say.' 'You don't know.' 'It means--you make me say, signorina,--"I sink you ver' beautiful like ze angels in Paradise."' 'Indeed! A donkey-driver, Tony, should not say anything like that.' 'But it is true.' 'The more reason you should not say it.' 'You asked me, signorina; I could not tell you a lie.' The signorina smiled slightly and looked away at the view; Tony seized the opportunity to look sidewise at her.

She turned back and caught him; he dropped his eyes humbly to the floor.
'Does Beppo speak Magyar ?' she inquired.
'Beppo ?' There was wonder in his tone at the turn her questions were taking.