Arthur neither moved nor spoke.
“Hold thou thy peace, Jack Enville,” said Basset, answering the look, for Jack had not uttered a word. “What should a Lancashire lad know of the Tremaynes of Tremayne? I know somewhat thereanent.—Are you not of that line?” he asked, turning his head towards Arthur.
“Ay, the last of the line,” said the latter quietly.
“I thought so much. Then you must be somewhat akin unto Sir Richard Grenville of Stow?”
“Somewhat—not over near,” answered Arthur, modestly.
“Forty-seventh cousin,” suggested Jack, not over civilly.
“And to Courtenay of Powderham,—what?”
“Courtenay!” broke in Jack. “What! he that, but for the attainder, should be Earl of Devon?”
“He,” responded Basset, a little mischievously, “that cometh in a right line from the Kings of France, and (through women) from the Emperors of Constantinople.”
“What kin art thou to him?” demanded Jack, surveying his old playmate from head to foot, with a sensation of respect which he had never felt for him before.