Or, as poor Rapaud translated this (and was pinched black and blue by Père Brossard in consequence):
"Le numéro deux se réjouit d'être impair!" (Number two takes a pleasure in being odd!)
The three sons—one of them now in the army, as becomes a Rohan; and one a sailor, as becomes a Josselin; and one a famous actor, the true Josselin of all—are the very types of what I should like for the fathers of my grandchildren, if I had marriageable daughters of my own.
And as for Barty's daughters, they are all—but one—so well known in society and the world—so famous, I may say—that I need hardly mention them here; all but Marty, my sweet little "maid of Dove."
When Barty took Marsfield he and I had entered what I have ever since considered the happiest decade of a successful and healthy man's life—the forties.
"Wait till you get to forty year!"
So sang Thackeray, but with a very different experience to mine. He seemed to look upon the fifth decade as the grave of all tender illusions and emotions, and exult!
My tender illusions and emotions became realties—things to live by and for. As Barty and I "dipped our noses in the Gascon wine"—Vougeot‑Conti & Co.—I blessed my stars for being free of Marsfield, which was, and is still, my real home, and for the warm friendship of its inhabitants who have been my real family, and for several years of unclouded happiness all round.
Even in winter what a joy it was, after a long solitary walk, or ride, or drive, or railway journey, to suddenly find myself at dusk in the midst of all that warmth and light and gayety; what a contrast to the House of Commons; what a relief after Barge Yard or Downing Street; what tea that was, what crumpets and buttered toast, what a cigarette; what romps and jokes, and really jolly good fun; and all that delightful untaught music that afterwards became so cultivated! Music was a special inherited gift of the entire family, and no trouble or expense was ever spared to make the best and the most of it.
Roberta became the most finished and charming amateur pianist I ever heard, and as for Mary la rossignolle—Mrs. Trevor—she's almost as famous as if she had made singing her profession, as she once so wished to do. She married happily instead, a better profession still; and though her songs are as highly paid for as any—except, perhaps, Madame Patti's—every penny goes to the poor.