Frowenfeld had never before spent such an hour.  At its expiration, he had so well held his own against both the others, that the three had settled down to this sort of entertainment:  Aurora would make an assertion, or Clotilde would ask a question; and Frowenfeld, moved by that frankness and ardent zeal for truth which had enlisted the early friendship of Dr. Keene, amused and attracted Honore Grandissime, won the confidence of the f.m.c., and tamed the fiery distrust and enmity of Palmyre, would present his opinions without the thought of a reservation either in himself or his hearers.  On their part, they would sit in deep attention, shielding their faces from the fire, and responding to enunciations directly contrary to their convictions with an occasional “yes-seh,” or “ceddenly,” or “of coze,” or,—­prettier affirmation still,—­a solemn drooping of the eyelids, a slight compression of the lips, and a low, slow declination of the head.

“The bane of all Creole art-effort”—­(we take up the apothecary’s words at a point where Clotilde was leaning forward and slightly frowning in an honest attempt to comprehend his condensed English)—­“the bane of all Creole art-effort, so far as I have seen it, is amateurism.”

“Amateu—­” murmured Clotilde, a little beclouded on the main word and distracted by a French difference of meaning, but planting an elbow on one knee in the genuineness of her attention, and responding with a bow.

“That is to say,” said Frowenfeld, apologizing for the homeliness of his further explanation by a smile, “a kind of ambitious indolence that lays very large eggs, but can neither see the necessity for building a nest beforehand, nor command the patience to hatch the eggs afterward.”

“Of coze,” said Aurora.

“It is a great pity,” said the sermonizer, looking at the face of Clotilde, elongated in the brass andiron; and, after a pause:  “Nothing on earth can take the place of hard and patient labor.  But that, in this community, is not esteemed; most sorts of it are contemned; the humbler sorts are despised, and the higher are regarded with mingled patronage and commiseration.  Most of those who come to my shop with their efforts at art hasten to explain, either that they are merely seeking pastime, or else that they are driven to their course by want; and if I advise them to take their work back and finish it, they take it back and never return.  Industry is not only despised, but has been degraded and disgraced, handed over into the hands of African savages.”

“Doze Creole’ is lezzy,” said Aurora.

“That is a hard word to apply to those who do not consciously deserve it,” said Frowenfeld; “but if they could only wake up to the fact,—­find it out themselves—­”

“Ceddenly,” said Clotilde.

“’Sieur Frowenfel’,” said Aurora, leaning her head on one side, “some pipple thing it is doze climade; ’ow you lag doze climade?”