that subject at length some future time,” said he. “But what do you think of the music?”
“What music?”
“Why, the music you have been listening to.”
“Oh, it is well enough as the production of a human composer, sung by featherless bipeds, to quote the late Diogenes.”
“From which it would seem, my dear count, that you can at pleasure enjoy the seraphic strains that proceed from the seven choirs of paradise?”
“You are right, in some degree; when I wish to listen to sounds more exquisitely attuned to melody than mortal ear ever yet listened to, I go to sleep.”
“Then sleep here, my dear count. The conditions are favorable; what else was opera invented for?”
“No, thank you. Your