Oh, Mr. Ibbetson, you must make no mistake about _me_! I was never intended by nature for a duchess--especially an English one. Not but what, if dukes and duchesses are necessary, the English are the best--and, of course, by dukes and duchesses I mean all that upper-ten-thousand in England which calls itself 'society'--as if there were no other worth speaking of. Some of them are almost angelic, but they are not for outsiders like me. Perpetual hunting and shooting and fishing and horseracing--eating, drinking, and killing, and making love--eternal court gossip and tittle-tattle--the Prince--the Queen--whom and what the Queen likes, whom and what she doesn't!--tame English party politics--the Church--a Church that doesn't know its own mind, in spite of its deans, bishops, archbishops, and their wives and daughters--and all their silly, solemn sense of social rank and dignity! Endless small-talk, dinners, and drums, and no society from year's end to year's end but each other! Ah, one must be caught young, and put in harness early, to lead such an existence as that and be content! And I had met and known _such_ men and women with my father! They _were_ something to know! There is another society in London and elsewhere--a freemasonry of intellect and culture and hard work--_la haute boheme du talent_--men and women whose names are or ought to be household words all over the world; many of them are good friends of mine, both here and abroad; and that society, which was good enough for my father and mother, is quite good enough for me. I am a republican, Mr. Ibbetson--a cosmopolite--a born Bohemian! _"'Mon grand pere etait rossignol; Ma grand mere etait hirondelle!"_ [Illustration] Look at my dear people there--look at your dear people! What waifs and strays, until their ship comes home, which we know it never will! Our fathers forever racking their five wits in the pursuit of an idea! Our mothers forever racking theirs to save money and make both ends meet!... Why, Mr. Ibbetson, you are nearer to the _rossignol_ than I am. Do you remember your father's voice? Shall I ever forget it! He sang to me only last night, and in the midst of my harrowing anxiety about you I was beguiled into listening outside the window. He sang Rossini's _'Cujus Animam.'_ He _was_ the nightingale; that was his vocation, if he could but have known it. And you are my brother Bohemian; that is _yours!_ ... Ah, _my_ vocation! It was to be the wife of some busy brain-worker--man of science--conspirator--writer--artist--architect, if you like; to fence him round and shield him from all the little worries and troubles and petty vexations of life. I am a woman of business _par excellence_--a manager, and all that. He would have had a warm, well-ordered little nest to come home to after hunting his idea!