She made a face. "Well, to tell the truth…"

"Julie, it's meant to be amusing, for Christ's sake."

"Oh. And Lester's version?"

"'The Myth of the Eskimos' Two Dozen Words for Snow,'" he said testily. "Something like that." He cut a few more slices from the loaf of French bread, loading them with wedges of Gorgonzola, and arranging them on the plate.

"Well, don't get mad, but I have to admit that I like Lester's version better. " Not," she added quickly, "that it's as amusing as yours, of course, but-hey, wait a minute-the myth of the Eskimos' two dozen words for snow? You mean they don't have them? Separate words for dry snow, and wet snow, and slushy snow-"

"Not two dozen, not fifty, not nine, not forty-eight, and not two hundred and two-each of which has been reported by 'authorities,' most of whom probably know as much Eskimo as I do."

"But… well, how many do they have?"

"Ah, you see, that's the hard part. Maybe two, maybe a hundred, depending on whether you're thinking of Inuit or Yupak, or whether you're counting lexemes, or morphemes, or derived-"

"Careful, you're losing me. To say nothing of the waiting masses."

"Look, the important thing is, it doesn't matter, it doesn't prove anything. However many they have, it's no big deal. Look at it this way: How many words do we have for water?"

"Well, I was going to say one, but now I think I'd better wait and see."

"Good move. What about 'ice?' 'Fog?' 'Mist?' 'Snow,' for that matter?"

"Yes, I guess if you want to stretch a point-"

"But it's not stretching a point. They all stand for water in different forms. And what about 'river,' 'stream,' 'brook,' 'creek,' 'eddy'? They all mean water-water moving at different rates in different conditions."

"And you're saying that's the kind of thing the Eskimos do for snow?"