“Come now,” remonstrated Maurice. “I am sure your countrymen behaved bravely in the War of Independence.”
“Yes, I agree with you there. Canaris, Mavrocordato, Botzaris, were all brave men. I accept the rebuke, for I have no right to run down my own countrymen. Perhaps in England I may learn the meaning of the word patriotism.”
“Or Jingoism.”
“Your pardon?” queried the Count, a trifled puzzled.
“Jingoism,” explained Maurice gravely, “is a spurious patriotism, composed of music-hall songs, the Union Jack, and gallons of beer—it begins with a chorus and ends with a riot. Tom, Dick, and Harry are very fond of it, as it expands their lungs and quenches their thirst. But there, I am only jesting. Do you stay long in England?”
Again the Greek eyed Maurice keenly, and hesitated a moment before replying.
“I can hardly tell yet,” he said, with emphasis. “Mr. Carriston, will you show me your garden?” he added, turning to the Rector.
“I will be delighted,” said Carriston eagerly; “we will stroll round it. Do you smoke?”
“No, thank you,” returned the count, waving away with a gesture of repugnance the cigarette Maurice held out to him. “I never smoke.”
“That is strange.”