"Certainly," said one. "What did you do?"

"I quickly put Monsieur le Rédacteur's style out of my book; then
I published it. George Sand promised to write the preface, but some
busybody told her that I was attacking the whole world, so she would
have nothing to do with it. She was misled: I blamed nothing in my
book but what deserved censure."

Having heard this excellent representation of the ancient minstrel,
we were shortly given a touch of the modern usurper of the name. A
gentleman was present who in the many turns of Fortune's wheel had
once found himself a follower of the burnt-cork persuasion. He gave us
a negro melody with a lively accompaniment on the guitar. A melancholy
Spanish song followed. The company again dispersed into congenial
groups, and in the long twilight you heard the murmur of voices broken
by occasional snatches of melody or the nightingale's song.

* * * * *

"And what do you think of Bohemia?" asked Afra as we returned that
night.

"It is different from what I expected. They are refined, and, though
frank, never rude. I think--"

Afra laughed: "You had unconsciously thought them a set of sharpers;
but there is a great difference between living by your brains and
living by your wits. My dear, you have broken bread with giants
to-day: such men live in another world that they may rule this one."