“I’ll never return—now,” said Invern. “The cursed microbe of artistic Paris is in my system. And, what’s more, I’ll never do anything. When a Yankee comes over here to paint he tries to paint like a Frenchman. Look at the three Salons with their half-baked imitations. Let me finish”—the brothers had lifted angry shoulders—“and if a Yankee studies music here he composes French music ever afterward—French music which is a sad mixture of German and Italian; eclectic style, the wise ones call it.”
“And if he goes to Germany?” demanded Harry.
“Then he composes German music.” Suddenly Willy stood up.
“I have solved the mystery. This pessimism, Oswald, is the result of—of—why, you’re in love, man! I know her name. It’s Miss Tilney—June Tilney. The secret is out.”
“Is her name June?” asked Oswald irrelevantly.
“It’s June and she’s rich as the sound of her name.” The Hollin boys were irrepressible this gay morning.
“So! But why June?”
“You’re interested. Listen,” interpolated Harry. “She’s a Yankee girl with a Russian mother—or had one—and she was educated in London, Russia, Italy, Germany, Paris——”
“Go on! Why not New York?”
“She never saw New York, but she speaks United States.”