“Yes,” Mr. Brock went on, “Hermann Marburg, the Chichester cobbler, is an educated man. A graduate of the gymnasium of Würzburg, Germany, and, except for an ineffacable accent which I myself find appealing, has been completely bilingual since the age of eleven, and partially trilingual—his third language, of course, being French—since the age of fifteen.”

Miss Pride did not seem impressed but rather than humiliate me, as I assumed, said nothing. “I have had several illuminating conversations with Mr. Marburg, sometimes in German, sometimes in English. I neglected to mention, by the way, that through his wife he has also picked up quite a considerable Russian vocabulary. Now a graduate of a gymnasium, Miss Pride, as you are perhaps not aware, is, if anything better educated than a candidate for an American baccalaureate degree. Yet the gymnasium is the counterpart of our preparatory school!”

“What do they learn?” inquired Miss Pride, frankly dubious.

“Having been something of a Latinist myself at Mr. Greenough’s, naturally I admire Mr. Marburg’s firm classical foundation. I must admit his Latin is less literary than ecclesiastical, for he was trained by the Franciscans, but it is, nevertheless, good, sound Latin. In addition he knows history. Oh, he knows his history well, Miss Pride! Roman and the French Revolution are his specialties. And then, although he’s a modest man, I have no doubt in the world he could put many of our Harvard men to shame in the field of philosophy. Literature he is not so keen on although he did drop the remark that he had at one time been a great admirer of Goethe. Now there is a man who has the perspicacity to see what I mean when I say that in his language Riders of the Purple Sage is a superb piece of craftsmanship.”

Miss Pride had had enough. She rose and her face, shaded by the wide brim of her hat, represented the pure substance of scorn. “You will forgive me, Mr. Brock, for finding your crotchet fantastic. It is my cantankerous opinion, sir, that you do not believe this nonsense yourself, but that you wish to disguise your appetite for rubbish. Not to put too fine a point on it, how could you, without the aid of some such camouflage, indulge yourself in Elsie Dinsmore at the age of seventy-two?”

Mortally wounded, he gave her a wan smile, “Your wit is all that it is said to be, ma’am.”

Less coldly but with the same firmness she went on, “What interests me about this Mr. Marburg is, does he make his shoes well? Does he know that craft, Mr. Brock, as well as his Latin?”

“Oh, I have no idea. I never discuss business with him.”