“Pity those two were born Frenchmen, Rodd, my boy,” said the doctor, “for there is something very gentlemanly about the Count, and I like that lad Morny too. There is something about him, Rodney, that you might very well copy.”
“Is there, uncle?”
“Yes, sir, there is. Certainly. I am not your father, but I am your uncle, and it gratifies me very much to see the polished, almost reverent way in which that lad behaves towards the Count. It’s polite, and it’s respectful, and it’s—er—it’s—er—”
“Why, you wouldn’t like it, uncle, if I were to behave to you just as he does to the Count.”
“Well, not exactly, Rodney, but there’s something very nice about it. Great pity, though, that they are French, and so corroded, so crusted over, as I may call it, with a sort of hero-worship for that tyrannical usurper. There, I won’t mention his name.”
“That’s right, uncle; don’t, please.”
“Why, sir?”
“Because it always makes you so cross, uncle.”
“Now, Rodney, that’s what I don’t like. If I have an antipathy to a scoundrel, and speak out firmly as an Englishman should, it is not for a boy like you to say I am cross; and I am quite sure that young Morny would have had too much common-sense to speak out like that to his father. It is a great pity, though, that they are both, as I say, so eaten up with that hero-worship, and I am very much afraid that I spoke a little too plainly to the Count to-day. It was rather unfortunate too. It was just when we had been having a very interesting conversation upon the medusae, especially those of a phosphorescent nature. By the way, has Morny said much to you about the object of their research?”
“No, uncle. He always seems disinclined to speak.”