"I am afraid you must rank with your husband, wifie," said mine, as the wives of the working people of London often call their husbands.
"Then you do count yourself a Bohemian: pray, what significance do you attach to the epithet?" I asked.
"I don't know, except it signifies our resemblance to the gypsies," he answered.
"I don't understand you quite."
"I believe the gypsies used to be considered Bohemians," interposed Roger, "though they are doubtless of Indian origin. Their usages being quite different from those amongst which they live, the name Bohemian came to be applied to painters, musicians, and such like generally, to whom, save by courtesy, no position has yet been accorded by society—so called."
"But why have they not yet vindicated for themselves a social position," I asked, "and that a high one?"
"Because they are generally poor, I suppose," he answered; "and society is generally stupid."
"May it not be because they are so often, like the gypsies, lawless in their behavior, as well as peculiar in their habits?" I suggested.
"I understand you perfectly, Mrs. Percivale," rejoined Roger with mock offence. "But how would that apply to Charlie?"
"Not so well as to you, I confess," I answered. "But there is ground for it with him too."