"No matter, no matter!" she cried;
"I should like to see the country which produced that wonderful young
man. I think of it as a sort of Arcadia--a land of the golden age. He's
so delightfully innocent! In this stupid old Germany, if a young man is
innocent he's a fool; he has no brains; he's not a bit interesting. But
Mr. Pickering says the freshest things, and after I have laughed five
minutes at their freshness it suddenly occurs to me that they are very
wise, and I think them over for a week." "True!" she went on, nodding at
him. "I call them inspired solecisms, and I treasure them up. Remember
that when I next laugh at you!"
Glancing at Pickering, I was prompted to believe that he was in a state
of beatific exaltation which weighed Madame Blumenthal's smiles and
frowns in an equal balance. They were equally hers; they were links
alike in the golden chain. He looked at me with eyes that seemed to say,
"Did you ever hear such wit? Did you ever see such grace?" It seemed to
me that he was but vaguely conscious of the meaning of her words; her
gestures, her voice and glance, made an absorbing harmony. There is
something painful in the spectacle of absolute enthralment, even to an
excellent cause. I gave no response to Pickering's challenge, but made
some remark upon the charm of Adelina Patti's singing.
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