Socrate, isolated in pipe-smoke like a god in a cloud, condescended to take an interest in him.
“You work too much, young man! Look out! Think less of the material side and trust to inspiration. Work is good. Glory is better. Think of glory, young man!”
“Hélas!” Phil thought; “how can you have glory without work?”
He had it a few days later—the glory which was dear to the heart of Socrate.
It was the day of his reception to the studio. He had only to give his family name, first name, and particulars to be asked to get up on a table—“Step lively et plus vite que ça!”—and to see around him a howling crowd, armed with brushes and palettes, shouting: “Philidor!”
“An American speaking French—where did you come from? En voilà un drôle de type!”
“My—my ancestors were French,” said Phil.
“An American who has ancestors!”
“Philidor de Longueville—” stammered Phil.
“Philidor! Philidor!”