THE AMERICAN
"Oh," said his friend a little more seriously, "I did n't know you had—well, your quarterings."
"Ah, your quarterings are your little local matter!"
Valentin just hesitated. "But aren't we all—is n't my admirable sister in particular—our little local matter?"
Newman met his eyes with a long, hard look exhaling at last, however, a sigh as long. "Do you mean that I must claim a social standing and hang out my sign? What sort of swagger's that? If it's a question of pretensions—pretensions, that is, to effectively existing—let me make, to meet you on your own ground, the very highest. Only it is n't, it seems to me, for me vulgarly to make them; it's for you, assuming them, to invalidate them. On you, in other words, the burden of disproof."
Valentin's fine smile suffered a further strain. "Have n't you manufactured and placed in the market certain admirable wash-tubs?"
"With great temporary success. But it is n't a question of my achievements—it's a question of my failures. You might catch me," said our friend, "on two or three of those. Only then, you know," he added, "I should have the right to ask you about yours."
"Oh, ours have partaken of our general brilliancy! They have n't at any rate prevented the great thing."
"And what do you call the great thing?"
"Well," Valentin smiled, "our being interesting."
Newman considered. "To yourselves?"
"To the world. That has been our value—that
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