“But it’s very horrible,” said Frank thoughtfully.
“Of course it is,” said Andrew, purposely misunderstanding him. “He’d have killed your father with as little compunction as he would a rat.”
“Yes, I’m afraid so,” said Frank, with a shiver.
“But he won’t be so ready to insult people next time; and next time will be a long way off, I know. But, I say, it’s sickening, that it is.”
“What is?”
“The fuss made over a fellow like that. Baron indeed! He’s only a foreign mercenary; and here is your poor father sent out of the country, while my lord has apartments set aside for him in the Palace, and he’s petted and pampered, and now at last he goes off in one of the King’s carriages with an escort.”
“Oh, well, as far as he is concerned, it does not matter.”
“Oh, but it does. I say it’s shameful that such preference should be shown to foreigners. If matters go on like this, there’ll be no old England left; we shall be all living in a bit of Germany.”
“Well, he has gone,” said Frank; “so let it rest.”
“I can’t, I tell you; it makes my blood boil.”