Nor did he seem to care much for the smart society of which he saw so much; perhaps the bar sinister may have made him feel less at his ease in general society than among his intimates and old friends. I feel sure he took this to heart more than any one would have thought possible from his careless manner.
He only once alluded directly to this when we were together. I was speaking to him of the enviable brilliancy of his lot. He looked at me pensively for a minute or two, and said, in English:
"You've got a kink in your nose, Bob—if it weren't for that you'd be a deuced good‑looking fellow—like me; but you ain't."
"Thanks—anything else?" said I.
"Well, I've got a kink in my birth, you see—and that's as big a kill‑joy as I know. I hate it!"
It was hard luck. He would have made such a splendid Marquis of Whitby! and done such honor to the proud old family motto:
"Roy ne puis, prince ne daigne, Rohan je suis!"
Instead of which he got himself a signet‑ring, and on it he caused to be engraved a zero within a naught, and round them:
"Rohan ne puis, roi ne daigne. Rien ne suis!"
Soon it became pretty evident that a subtle change was being wrought in him.