Emilia gave the vote for Camillus, beginning forthwith to hum, with visions of a long roll of swarthy cavalry, headed by a clear-eyed young chief, sunlight perching on his helm.

“Yes; but you don’t think of the situations in Clelia, and what I can do with her,” snapped Tracy.  “I see a song there that would light up all London.  Unfortunately, the sentiment’s dead Radical.  It wouldn’t so much matter if we were certain to do Camillus as well; because one would act as a counterpoise to the other, you know.  Well, follow your own fancy.  Camillus is strictly classical.  I treat opera there as Alfieri conceived tragedy.  Clelia is modern style.  Cast the die for Camillus, and let’s take horse.  Only, we lose the love-business—­exactly where I show my strength.  Clelia in the camp of the king:  dactyllic chorus-accompaniment, while she, in heavy voluptuous anapaests, confesses her love for the enemy of her country.  Remember, this is our romantic opera, where we do what we like with History, and make up our minds for asses telling us to go home and read our ‘student’s Rome.’  Then that scene where she and the king dance the dactyls, and the anapaests go to the chorus.  Sublime!  Let’s go into the woods and begin.  We might give the first song or two to-night.  In composition, mind, always strike out your great scene, and work from it—­don’t work up to it, or you’ve lost fire when you reach the point.  That’s my method.”

They ran into the woods, skipping like schoolboy and schoolgirl.  On hearing that Camillus would not be permitted to love other than his ungrateful country, Emilia’s conception of the Roman lord grew pale, and a controversy ensued-she maintaining that a great hero must love a woman; he declaring that a great hero might love a dozen, but that it was beneath the dignity of this drama to allow of a rival to Rome in Camillus’s love.

“He will not do for music,” said Emilia firmly, and was immoveable.  In despair, Tracy proposed attaching a lanky barbarian daughter to Brennus, whose deeds of arms should provoke the admiration of the Roman.

“And so we relinquish Alfieri for Florian!  There’s a sentimental burlesque at once!” the youth ejaculated, in gloom.  “I chose this subject entirely to give you Rome for a theme.”

Emilia took his hand.  “I do thank you.  If Brennus has a daughter, why not let her be half Roman?”

Tracy fired out:  “she’s a bony woman, with a brawny development; mammoth haunches, strong of the skeleton; cheek-bones, flat-forward, as a fish ’s rotting on a beach; long scissor lips-nippers to any wretched rose of a kiss! a pugilist’s nose to the nostrils of a phoca; and eyes!—­don’t you see them?—­luminaries of pestilence; blotted yellow, like a tallow candle shining through a horny lantern.”

At this horrible forced-poetic portrait, Emilia cried in pain:  “You hate her suddenly!”

“I loathe the creature—­pah!” went Tracy.