"It 's deucedly pretty," he said at last. "But, my dear young friend,
you can't keep this up."

"I shall do better," said Roderick.

"You will do worse! You will become weak. You will have to take to
violence, to contortions, to romanticism, in self-defense. This sort
of thing is like a man trying to lift himself up by the seat of his
trousers. He may stand on tiptoe, but he can't do more. Here you stand
on tiptoe, very gracefully, I admit; but you can't fly; there 's no use
trying."

"My 'America' shall answer you!" said Roderick, shaking toward him a
tall glass of champagne and drinking it down.

Singleton had taken the photograph and was poring over it with a little
murmur of delight.

"Was this done in America?" he asked.

"In a square white wooden house at Northampton, Massachusetts," Roderick
answered.

"Dear old white wooden houses!" said Miss Blanchard.

"If you could do as well as this there," said Singleton, blushing and
smiling, "one might say that really you had only to lose by coming to
Rome."