“You are not such a fool,” she said, “as my adopted son would have me believe. You have spared me at least that hideous Latin quotation which has done so much harm to your race.”
“Out of respect to you,” he declared, “I avoided it. It was really a little too obvious.”
“Come,” she said, “you are a type of man I have not met with for years. You are strong and vigorous and healthy. You have color upon your cheeks, and strength in your tone and movements. In any show of your kind, you should certainly be entitled to a prize.”
Rochester laughed, at first softly, and then heartily.
“My dear lady,” he said, “forgive me. I can assure you that although my inclinations do not prompt me to sit at your son’s feet and accept his mythical sayings as the words of a god, I am really not a fool. I will even go so far as this. I will even admit the possibility that a serious and religious study of occultism might result in benefit to all of us. The chief point where you and I differ is with regard to your adopted son. You believe in him, apparently. I don’t!”
“Then why are you here?” she asked. “What do you want with him? Do you come as an enemy?”
Rochester was spared the necessity of making any answer. He heard the door open, and the woman’s eyes glittered as they turned toward it.
“Bertrand is here himself,” she said. “You can settle your business with him.”
Rochester rose to his feet. Saton had just entered, closing the door behind him. Prepared for Rochester’s presence by the servants, he greeted him calmly enough.