I am a republican, Mr. Ibbetson—a cosmopolite—a born Bohemian!
“’Mon grand père était rossignol; Ma grand mère était hirondelle!”
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Look at my dear people there—look at your dear people! What waifs and strays, until their ship comes home, which we know it never will! Our fathers forever racking their five wits in the pursuit of an idea! Our mothers forever racking theirs to save money and make both ends meet!… Why, Mr. Ibbetson, you are nearer to the rossignol than I am. Do you remember your father’s voice? Shall I ever forget it! He sang to me only last night, and in the midst of my harrowing anxiety about you I was beguiled into listening outside the window. He sang Rossini’s ‘Cujus Animam.’ He was the nightingale; that was his vocation, if he could but have known it. And
