“Oh, woman, woman!” said Léon, beginning to open the guitar-case. “It is one of the burdens of my life, Monsieur Stubbs; they support each other; they always pretend there is no system; they say it’s nature. Even Madame Berthelini, who is a dramatic artist!”
“You are heartless, Léon,” said Elvira; “that woman is in trouble.”
“And the man, my angel?” inquired Berthelini, passing the ribbon of his guitar. “And the man, m’amour?”
“He is a man,” she answered.
“You hear that?” said Léon to Stubbs. “It is not too late for you. Mark the intonation. And now,” he continued, “what are we to give them?”
“Are you going to sing?” asked Stubbs.
“I am a troubadour,” replied Léon. “I claim a welcome by and for my art. If I were a banker, could I do as much?”
“Well, you wouldn’t need, you know,” answered the undergraduate.
“Egad,” said Léon, “but that’s true. Elvira, that is true.”
“Of course it is,” she replied. “Did you not know it?”