'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'
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