He pushed the map away and his fire died down. He spoke almost in his usual manner.
“The conquest of the world,” he said. “He is a great fool. What would he do with his continents if he got them?”
“What, indeed,” pondered her grace. “Continents—even kingdoms are not like kittens in a basket, or puppies to be trained to come to heel.”
“It is part of his monomania that he can persuade himself that they are little more.” Coombe’s eye-glasses had been slowly swaying from the ribbon in his fingers. He let them continue to sway a moment and then closed them with a snap.
“He is a great fool,” he said. “But we,—oh, my friend—and by ‘we’ I mean the rest of the Map of Europe—we are much greater fools. A mad dog loose among us and we sit—and smile.”
And this was in the days before the house with the cream-coloured front had put forth its first geraniums and lobelias in Feather’s window boxes. Robin was not born.
CHAPTER XVIII
In the added suite of rooms at the back of the house, Robin grew through the years in which It was growing also. On the occasion when her mother saw her, she realized that she was not at least going to look like a barmaid. At no period of her least refulgent moment did she verge upon this type. Dowie took care of her and Mademoiselle Vallé educated her with the assistance of certain masters who came to give lessons in German and Italian.
“Why only German and Italian and French,” said Feather, “why not Latin and Greek, as well, if she is to be so accomplished?”
“It is modern languages one needs at this period. They ought to be taught in the Board Schools,” Coombe replied. “They are not accomplishments but workman’s tools. Nationalities are not separated as they once were. To be familiar with the language of one’s friends—and one’s enemies—is a protective measure.”