"For what?" said I. "But for that same lesson in Armenian, and your general knowledge of languages; as for your manners and appearance I will say nothing," said the man in black, with a titter. "And why should not a Gypsy possess a knowledge of languages?" said I. "Because the Gypsy race is perfectly illiterate," said the man in black; "they are possessed, it is true, of a knavish acuteness, and are particularly noted for giving subtle and evasive answers--and in your answers, I confess, you remind me of them; but that one of the race should acquire a learned language like the Armenian, and have a general knowledge of literature, is a thing che io non credo afatto." "What do you take me for?" said I. "Why," said the man in black, "I should consider you to be a philologist, who, for some purpose, has taken up a Gypsy life; but I confess to you that your way of answering questions is far too acute for a philologist." "And why should not a philologist be able to answer questions acutely?" said I. "Because the philological race is the most stupid under Heaven," said the man in black; "they are possessed, it is true, of a certain faculty for picking up words, and a memory for retaining them; but that any one of the sect should be able to give a rational answer, to say nothing of an acute one, on any subject--even though the subject were philology--is a thing of which I have no idea." "But you found me giving a lesson in Armenian to this handmaid?" "I believe I did," said the man in black. "And you heard me give what you are disposed to call acute answers to the questions you asked me?" "I believe I did," said the man in black. "And would any one but a philologist think of giving a lesson in Armenian to a handmaid in a dingle?" "I should think not," said the man in black. "Well, then, don't you see that it is possible for a philologist to give not only a rational, but an acute answer?" "I really don't know," said the man in black. "What's the matter with you?" said I. "Merely puzzled," said the man in black. "Puzzled?" "Yes." "Really puzzled?" "Yes." "Remain so." "Well," said the man in black, rising, "puzzled or not, I will no longer trespass upon your and this young lady's retirement; only allow me, before I go, to apologise for my intrusion." "No apology is necessary," said I; "will you please to take anything before you go? I think this young lady, at my request, will contrive to make you a cup of tea." "Tea!" said the man in black--"he! he! I don't drink tea; I don't like it,--if, indeed, you had--" and here he stopped. "There's nothing like gin and water, is there?" said I, "but I am sorry to say I have none." "Gin and water," said the man in black--"how do you know that I am fond of gin and water?" "Did I not see you drinking some at the public-house?"