“I told you once, I doubt the marriage of those two,” he replied, throwing up his hands again, as if he were throwing the unprofitable subject away. “But here I am in Creation. I come of no fine family. What does it matter?”
“At least you are Swiss,” said Vendale, after following him with his eyes to and fro.
“How do I know?” he retorted abruptly, and stopping to look back over his shoulder. “I say to you, at least you are English. How do you know?”
“By what I have been told from infancy.”
“Ah! I know of myself that way.”
“And,” added Vendale, pursuing the thought that he could not drive back, “by my earliest recollections.”
“I also. I know of myself that way—if that way satisfies.”
“Does it not satisfy you?”
“It must. There is nothing like ‘it must’ in this little world. It must. Two short words those, but stronger than long proof or reasoning.”
“You and poor Wilding were born in the same year. You were nearly of an age,” said Vendale, again thoughtfully looking after him as he resumed his pacing up and down.