Of course the poor all over the world are less nice in their habits than the rich, and less correct in their grammar and accent, and narrower in their views of life; but in every other respect there seemed little to choose between Josselins and Rohans and Lonlay-Savignacs; and indeed, according to Lord Archibald, the best manners were to be found at these two opposite poles--or even wider still. He would have it that Royalty and chimney-sweeps were the best-bred people all over the world--because there was no possible mistake about their social status. I felt a little indignant--after all, Lady Archibald was built out of chocolate, for all her Lonlay and her Savignac! just as I was built out of Beaune and Chambertin. I'm afraid I shall be looked upon as a snob and a traitor to my class if I say that I have at last come to be of the same opinion myself. That is, if absolute simplicity, and the absence of all possible temptation to try and seem an inch higher up than we really are--But there! this is a very delicate question, about which I don't care a straw; and there are such exceptions, and so many, to confirm any such rule! Anyhow, I saw how Barty _couldn't help_ having the manners we all so loved him for. After dinner Lady Archibald showed old Josselin some of Barty's lovely female profiles--a sight that affected him strangely. He would have it that they were all exact portraits of his beloved Antoinette, Barty's mother. They were certainly singularly like each other, these little chefs-d'oeuvre of Barty's, and singularly handsome--an ideal type of his own; and the old grandfather was allowed his choice, and touchingly grateful at being presented with such treasures. The scene made a great impression on me. * * * * * So spent itself that year--a happy year that had no history--except for one little incident that I will tell because it concerns Barty, and illustrates him. One beautiful Sunday morning the yellow omnibus was waiting for some of us as we dawdled about in the school-room, titivating; the masters nowhere, as usual on a Sunday morning; and some of the boys began to sing in chorus a not very edifying _chanson_, which they did not "Bowdlerize," about a holy Capuchin friar; it began (if I remember rightly): "C'était un Capucin, oui bien, un père Capucin, Qui confessait trois filles-- Itou, itou, itou, là là là! Qui confessait trois filles Au fond de son jardin-- Oui bien-- Au fond de son jardin! Il dit à la plus jeune-- Itou, itou, itou, là là là! Il dit à la plus jeune ... 'Vous reviendrez demain!'" Etc, etc., etc. I have quite forgotten the rest.