"I am a troubadour," replied Leon. "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 Leon, "but that's true. Elvira, that is true."
"Of course it is," she replied. "Did you not know it?"
"My dear," answered Leon impressively, "I know nothing but what is
agreeable. Even my knowledge of life is a work of art superiorly
composed. But what are we to give them? It should be something
appropriate."
Visions of "Let dogs delight" passed through the undergraduate's
mind; but it occurred to him that the poetry was English and that
he did not know the air. Hence he contributed no suggestion.
"Something about our houselessness," said Elvira.
"I have it," cried Leon. And he broke forth into a song of Pierre
Dupont's:-
"Savez-vous ou gite,
Mai, ce joli mois?"
Elvira joined in; so did Stubbs, with a good ear and voice, but an
imperfect acquaintance with the music. Leon and the guitar were
equal to the situation. The actor dispensed his throat-notes with
prodigality and enthusiasm; and, as he looked up to heaven in his
heroic way, tossing the black ringlets, it seemed to him that the
very stars contributed a dumb applause to his efforts, and the
universe lent him its silence for a chorus. That is one of the
best features of the heavenly bodies, that they belong to everybody
in particular; and a man like Leon, a chronic Endymion who managed
to get along without encouragement, is always the world's centre
for himself.
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