the honor to live in the only country worth living in."
"And pray what country is that?"
"The land of dreams—the country of art."
"Oh, the land of dreams! I live in the land of realities!" Bonus exclaimed. "What do you all mean then by chattering so about le roman russe?"
"It's a convenience—to identify the work of three or four, là-bas, because we're so far from it. But do you see them writing 'le roman russe?'"
"I happen to know that that's exactly what they want to do, some of them," said Bonus.
"Some of the idiots, then! There are plenty of those everywhere. Anything born under that silly star is sure not to count."
"Thank God I'm not an artist!" said Bonus.
"Dear Alfred's a critic," I explained.
"And I'm not ashamed of my country," he subjoined.
"Even a critic perhaps may be an artist," Vendemer mused.