The undergraduate, who had not understood the significance of the woman’s contribution, pricked up his ears at the change upon the man. “There’s going to be a free fight,” he opined. There was another retort from the woman, still calm but a little higher. “Hysterics?” asked Léon of his wife. “Is that the stage direction?” “How should I know?” returned Elvira, somewhat tartly. “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?” “My dear,” answered Léon 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 Léon. And he broke forth into a song of Pierre Dupont’s:— “Savez-vous où gite, Mai, ce joli mois?” Elvira joined in; so did Stubbs, with a good ear and voice, but an imperfect acquaintance with the music. Léon 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 Léon, a chronic Endymion who managed to get along without encouragement, is always the world’s centre for himself. He alone—and it is to be noted, he was the worst singer of the three—took the music seriously to heart, and judged the serenade from a high artistic point of view. Elvira, on the other hand, was preoccupied about their reception; and, as for Stubbs, he considered the whole affair in the light of a broad joke. “Know you the lair of May, the lovely month?” went the three voices in the turnip-field.