The distances are enormous between country houses in this land; and, as the hour named for dinner was six o’clock, we had to begin dressing in the afternoon at the early hour of three.  At four we were packed in the family landau, with a mountain of rugs and different things to keep our feet warm.  We jogged along the hard, slippery highroad at a monotonous pace; and, as it is dark at four o’clock, nothing could have been more conducive to slumber and peaceful dreams.  Finally we arrived.  Every one was standing up when we entered the salon.  There seemed to be a great number of people.  I was presented to all the ladies, and the gentlemen were brought up one by one and named to me.  They bowed, shook my hand, and retired.  I noticed that all the ladies wore long trailing skirts—­lilac or gray—­and had real flowers in their hair and on their bosoms.  Dinner was announced.  Then there came a pause.  The host and the hostess were looking about for some one to undertake me—­some one who could tale Engelsk (talk English).  Finally they decided upon a lank, spectacled gentleman, who offered me his arm and took me in.

My father-in-law, who was the person highest in rank, sat on the left of the hostess.  I thought this peculiar, but such is the custom here.  From the moment we sat down until we rose from the table my English-speaking friend never stopped talking.  He told me he had learned my language when a boy, but had forgotten a great deal; if he had said he had forgotten it entirely he would have been nearer the truth.

He wanted to tell me the family history of a gentleman opposite us, and began by saying:  “Do you see that gentleman?  He has been washing you all the time.”

“Washing me?” I exclaimed.  “What do you mean?”

“Yes, the one with the gray hairs and the bird.”

I looked about for a canary perched on some one’s nose.

“It is a pity,” he went on to say, “that he has no shield.”

“How is that?” I asked.  “I thought every one had a shield of some sort?” To make it clearer to me, he said, uln Danish we call a shield a barn.”

“Is he a farmer?” said I, much puzzled.

“Oh dear, no!  He is a lawyer like me.”

“Then what does he want with a barn?”

“Every couple [pronounced copol] wants burn,” he replied.

“What is it they want?” I asked.  “What do you call burn?”

“Burn,” he explained, “is pluriel for barn. Eight barn, two burn.”

“What?” I cried, “eight barns to burn!  Why do they want to burn eight barns?  They must be crazy!”

All this will sound to you as idiotic as it did to me, but you will get the explanation at the end of the chapter, as I did—­on the drive home—­the two hours of which were entirely taken up in laughing at the mistakes of the good lawyer, who did his best.

Our conversation languished after this.  My brain could not bear such a strain.  Suddenly he got up from his chair.  I thought that he was going to take himself and his English away, but after he had quaffed a whole glass of wine, at one swallow, bowed over it, and pointed his empty glass at Johan, he resumed his seat, and conversation flowed again.