My life has been notoriously irreproachable.
I figure in polemical literature as an instance of a man who has lived in
contact with the demoralising influence of the stage, and will yet go to
Heaven. _A la bonne heure!_
I am coming to the end of my souvenirs and of my cigar at the same time. I
must convey a coin somehow to that dreary person outside, who is grinding
now half-way down the street.
On consideration, I decide emphatically against opening the window and
presenting it that way. If the fog once gets in, it will utterly spoil me
for any work this evening. I feel myself in travail also of two charming
little _Lieder_ that all this thinking about Ninette has suggested. How
would 'Chansons de Gamine' do for a title? I think it best, on second
thoughts, to ring for Giacomo, my man, and send him out with the half-crown
I propose to sacrifice on the altar of sentiment. Doubtless the musician is
a country-woman of his, and if he pockets the coin, that is his look out.
Now if I was writing a romance, what a chance I have got. I should tell you
how my organ-grinder turned out to be no other than Ninette. Of course she
would not be spoilt or changed by the years--just the same Ninette.
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