“If one’s an artist, and especially a singer,” she declared with a vigorous downward sweep of her hand, “one’s got to be first-rate! Second-rate’s worse than nothing; and who can tell if one will arrive at being first-rate?” Pantaleone, who took part too in the conversation—(as an old servant and an old man he had the privilege of sitting down in the presence of the ladies of the house; Italians are not, as a rule, strict in matters of etiquette)—Pantaleone, as a matter of course, stood like a rock for art. To tell the truth, his arguments were somewhat feeble; he kept expatiating for the most part on the necessity, before all things, of possessing “_un certo estro d’inspirazione_”—a certain force of inspiration! Frau Lenore remarked to him that he had, to be sure, possessed such an “_estro_”—and yet … “I had enemies,” Pantaleone observed gloomily. “And how do you know that Emil will not have enemies, even if this “_estro_” is found in him?” “Very well, make a tradesman of him, then,” retorted Pantaleone in vexation; “but Giovan’ Battista would never have done it, though he was a confectioner himself!” “Giovan’ Battista, my husband, was a reasonable man, and even though he was in his youth led away …” But the old man would hear nothing more, and walked away, repeating reproachfully, “Ah! Giovan’ Battista!…” Gemma exclaimed that if Emil felt like a patriot, and wanted to devote all his powers to the liberation of Italy, then, of course, for such a high and holy cause he might sacrifice the security of the future—but not for the theatre! Thereupon Frau Lenore became much agitated, and began to implore her daughter to refrain at least from turning her brother’s head, and to content herself with being such a desperate republican herself! Frau Lenore groaned as she uttered these words, and began complaining of her head, which was “ready to split.” (Frau Lenore, in deference to their guest, talked to her daughter in French.) Gemma began at once to wait upon her; she moistened her forehead with eau-de-Cologne, gently blew on it, gently kissed her cheek, made her lay her head on a pillow, forbade her to speak, and kissed her again. Then, turning to Sanin, she began telling him in a half-joking, half-tender tone what a splendid mother she had, and what a beauty she had been. “‘Had been,’ did I say? she is charming now! Look, look, what eyes!”