CHAPTER VI.
"My father is one of the most wonderful men in the whole world!" Wilfrid lifted an eyelid.
"He is one of the first-violins at the Italian Opera!" The gallant cornet's critical appreciation of this impressive announcement was expressed in a spiral ebullition of smoke from his mouth.
"He is such a proud man! And I don't wonder at that: he has reason to be proud." Again Wilfrid lifted an eyelid, and there is no knowing but that ideas of a connection with foreign Counts, Cardinals, and Princes passed hopefully through him.
"Would you believe that he is really the own nephew of Andronizetti!" "Deuce he is!" said Wilfrid, in a mist.

"Which one ?" "The composer!" Wilfrid emitted more smoke.
"Who composed--how I love him!--that lovely 'la, la, la, la,' and the 'te-de, ta-da, te-dio,' that pleases you, out of 'Il Maladetto.' And I am descended from him! Let me hope I shall not be unworthy of him.

You will never tell it till people think as much of me, or nearly.

My father says I shall never be so great, because I am half English.

It's not my fault.