L.H. No longer English was all that mattered: “tout à fait transformé,” as I managed to say to the man. And he—magnificently: “Mais oui, Monsieur, c’était bien necessaire!” Is that what you call French politeness?
R.R. Rather the “amour propre” of the artist, I should say.
L.H. In this nation of artists one gets too much of it.
H.A. There isn’t such a thing as a nation of artists. The French only appear so because they take a more transparent pride in themselves than we do. They haven’t yet discovered that modesty is the best vanity.
R.R. Is that your own, Herbie, or did you get it from Oscar yesterday?
H.A. No. I didn’t see him. I invented it as I got up this morning, meaning to let it occur as an impromptu. Now it’s gone.
R.R. Oh, no. Say it again, my dear boy, say it again! We shall all be charmed: so will he.
L.H. Look; there he is! Who’s with him?
R.R. Davray. I asked Davray to go and bring him, so as to make sure. You know him, don’t you? You like him?
L.H. A Frenchman who can talk English always goes to my heart.