Mrs. Sheldam sat up primly, and Ermentrude was vastly amused. With a
flash of fun she replied:--

"Yes, America does, Monsieur Kéroulan. We have so many Europeans over
there now that our standard has fallen off from the days of Emerson and
Whitman. And didn't America give Europe Poe?" She knew that this boast
had the ring of the amateur, but it pleased her to see how it startled
him.

"America is the Great Bribe," he pursued. "You have no artists in New
York."

"Nor have we New Yorkers," the girl retorted. "The original writing
natives live in Europe."

He looked puzzled, but did not stop. "You have depressed literature to
the point of publication," he solemnly asserted. This was too much and
she laughed in mockery. Husband and wife joined her, while Mrs. Sheldam
trembled at the audacity of her niece--whose irony was as much lost on
her as it was on the poet.

"But _you_ publish plays and books, do you not?" Ermentrude naïvely
asked.

Madame Kéroulan interposed in icy tones:--

"Mademoiselle Adams misunderstands. Monsieur Kéroulan is the Grand
Disdainer. Like his bosom friend, Monsieur Mallarmé, he cares little for
the Philistine public--"