“Why,” said he, in his tempestuously frothy fashion, “I’ve heard that creature actually discussing with another American what sort of air a man should assume in entering a drawing-room!  Can you conceive of such a thing?  Where did all that alarmed self-consciousness of the modern American come from—­that unceasing self-consciousness that makes the American young man spend five sixths of his waking time in asking himself if he is a gentleman?  Not from the splendid assurance, the belief in himself, the wholesome satisfaction of old John Bull.  It’s no use for the modern American to say he is of English descent at all!” continued this boisterous controversialist, who was still glaring at the hapless mortal at the door, as if every windy sentence was being hurled at his head.  “Not a bit! there’s nothing English about him, or his ways, or his sympathies, or character.  Fancy an Englishman considering what demeanor he should assume before entering a drawing-room!  The modern American hasn’t the least idea from whom he is descended; what right has he to claim anything of our glorious English heritage?—­or to say there is English blood in him at all?  Why, as far back as the Declaration of Independence, the people of English birth or parentage in the Eastern States were in a distinct minority!  And as to the American of the future—­look at the thousands upon thousands of Germans pouring into the country as compared with the English immigration.  That is the future American—­a German; and it is to be hoped he will have some back-bone in him, and not alarm himself about his entering a drawing-room!  America for the Americans?—­it’s America for the Germans!  I tell you this:  in a generation or two the great national poet of America will be—­Goethe!”

Happily, at this moment, Lady Adela came up, and Lionel most gladly turned aside, for she had evidently something to say to him privately.

“Mr. Moore, I want to introduce you to Mr. Hooper—­to Mr. Quincey Hooper—­he doesn’t seem to know anybody, and I want you to look after him a little—­”

“No, no, Lady Adela, you must really excuse me,” said he, in an undertone, but he was laughing all the same.  “I can’t, really.  I beg your pardon, but indeed you must excuse me.  I’ve just had one dose of literature—­a furious lecture about—­about I don’t know what—­oh, yes, immigration into America.  And do you know this—­that in a generation or two the great national poet of America will be Goethe?”

“What?” said she.

He repeated the statement; and added that there could be no doubt about it, for he had it on Mr. Octavius Quirk’s authority.

“Well, it’s a good thing to be told,” she said, sweetly, “for then you know.”  And therewithal, as there was a sudden sound of music issuing from the next gallery, she bade Lionel take her to see who had begun—­it was Lady Sybil, indeed, who was playing a solo on the violin to an accompaniment of stringed instruments, while all the crowd stood still and listened.