"If I spoke to him as one he answered as one; that's bigoted enough," said Alfred Bonus.
"He was confused and amused at your onslaught: he wondered what fly had stung you."
"The fly of patriotism," Vendemer suggested.
"Do you like him—a beast of a German?" Bonus demanded.
"If he's an Englishman he isn't a German—il faut opter. We can hang him for the one or for the other, we can't hang him for both. I was immensely struck with those things he played."
"They had no charm for me, or doubtless I too should have been demoralised," Alfred said. "He seemed to know nothing about Miss Brownrigg. Now Miss Brownrigg's great."
"I like the things and even the people you quarrel about, you big babies of the same breast. C'est à se tordre!" Vendemer declared.
"I may be very abject, but I do take an interest in the American novel," Alfred rejoined.
"I hate such expressions: there's no such thing as the American novel."
"Is there by chance any such thing as the French?"