sir! who talks of a genuine democracy with mankind in its present
state? Before it comes about, the multitude will be instructed,
exalted, emancipated, humanized!"

"Sir!" shouted Marsh, "who talks of the Millennium? I speak of things
possible within a few hundred years. The multitude will _never_ be
humanized. Civilization is attainable only by the few; nature so
ordains it."

"Pardon me for saying that is a lie! I use the word controversially."

"It is a manifest truth!" cried the other. "Who ever doubted it but a
_Dummkopf_? I use the word with reference to this argument only."

So it went on for a long time. Mallard and Elgar knew no German, so
could derive neither pleasure nor profit from the high debate.

"Are you as glum here as in London?" Reuben asked of his companion, in
a bantering voice. "I should have pictured you grandly jovial, wreathed
perhaps with ruddy vine-leaves, the light of inspiration in your eye,
and in your hand a mantling goblet! Drink, man, drink! you need a
stimulant, an exhilarant, an anti-phlegmatic, a counter-irritant
against English spleen. You are still on the other side of the Alps, of
the Channel; the fogs yet cling about you. Clear your brow, O painter
of Ossianic wildernesses! Taste the foam of life! We are in the land of
Horace, and _nunc est bibendum_!--Seriously, do you never relax?"

"Oh yes. You should see me over the fifth tumbler of whiskey at
Stornoway."

"Bah! you might as well say the fifth draught of fish-oil North Cape.
How innocent this wine is! A gallon of it would give one no more than a
pleasant glow, the faculty of genial speech. Take a glass with me to
the health of your enchanting ward."

"Please to command your tongue," growled Mallard, with a look that was
not to be mistaken.

"I beg your pardon. It shall be to the health of that superb girl we
saw in the Mercato. But, as far as I can judge yet, the Neapolitan type
doesn't appeal to me very strongly. It is finely animal, and of course
that has its value; but I prefer the suggestion of a soul, don't you? I
remember a model old Langton had in Rome, a girl fresh from the
mountains; by Juno! a glorious creature! I dare say you have seen her
portrait in his studio; he likes to show it. But it does her nothing
like justice; she might have sat for the genius of the Republic.
Utterly untaught, and intensely stupid; but there were marvellous
things to be read in her face. Ah, but give me the girls of Venice! You