"It strikes me," I said, "that it would be a good idea to put on that
bay rum, or cologne, or whatever it is, with a clean paint-brush, or
something of the kind. Don't you dislike using your fingers?"
Sylvia laughed. "You have lots to learn yet," she said, "before you can
be a brother; and now tell me what particular kind of work you think the
brothers would do. I hardly think nursing would suit them very well."
I did not immediately answer, and Sylvia's quick mind divined the reason
of my reluctance.
"Let us talk _en francais_," she said; "that will not disturb this good
man, and he can go to sleep if he likes."
"_Tres bien_," I said, "_parlons nous en francais_."
"_Il serait charmant_," said she; "_j'aime la belle langue_."
The old man turned his head from one to the other of us; all his
placidity vanished, and he exclaimed,--
"_Ciel! Voila les anges l'un et l'autre qui vient parler ma chere
langue._"
"Good gracious!" exclaimed Sylvia, "I thought he was Irish."
The patient now took the talking business into his own hands, and in his
dear language told us his tale of woe. It was a very ordinary tale, and
its dolefulness was relieved by the old man's delight at finding people
who could talk to him like Christians.
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