As for me, I am not so happy. Sunday morning finds me a lonely bachelor without aim. My Sunday home is now transported over the wide seas. The big old house on the hill — your welcome that said the day was not complete until we were together again! And our dear jolly Elsa, coming out beaming, grasping ray hand and shouting “Max, Max!” and hurrying indoors to open my favorite Schnaps. The fine boys, too, especially your handsome young Heinrich; he will be a grown man before I set eyes upon him again.
And dinner — shall I evermore hope to eat as I have eaten? Now Igo to a restaurant and over my lonely roast beef come visions of Gebackener Schinken steaming in its Burgundy sauce, of Spätzle, ah! of Spätzle and Spargel. No, I shall never again become reconciled to my American diet. And the wines, so carefully slipped ashore from the German boats, and the pledges we made as the glasses brimmed for the fourth and fifth and sixth times.
Of course you are right to go. You have never become American despite your success here, and now that the business is so well established you must take your sturdy German boys back to the homeland to be educated. Elsa too has missed her family through the long years and they will be glad to see you as well. The impecunious young artist has now become the family benefactor, and that too will give you a quiet little triumph.
The business continues to go well. Mrs. Levine has bought the small Picasso at our price, for which I congratulate myself, and I have old Mrs.