Arithelli sat in a corner and rocked with inward laughter over his
atrocious English, and evident enjoyment of the morbid sentiments. For
in spite of her face Arithelli had a fine sense of the ridiculous.
"You don't say the words properly," she said. "You make such mouthfuls
out of them!"
"And what of you?" Emile retorted in great wrath. "You with your
French all soft, soft like oil!"
"Yes, that's the Irish half of me."
"And your Italian so _rauque_ so hard--!"
"That's the Jewish half of me. Oh, don't let's quarrel! I do want to
learn to sing properly."
"Then don't fold your arms," her instructor said sharply. "I suppose
you think it looks dramatic, but how can you learn to sing what you
call 'properly,' with your chest all crushed up like that?"
CHAPTER VI
"When I look back on the days long fled,
The memory grows still dreamier.
Oh! what fantastic lives they led,
Far away in Bohemia.
"There were laws that were only made to break,
In a world that never seems half awake
Till the lamps were lit--there were souls at stake.
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