“That!” My lord brushed it aside. “I have forgotten all that. It is nothing; it lies in the dead past. Oblige me by forgetting it likewise.”
“Oh, with all my heart, sir, but there are perhaps some whose memories are not so short. A pardon is necessary if Robin wants to remain in England, and come out of those clothes.”
My lord put up an admonishing finger. “Sir Anthony, I acquit you of a desire to insult me. Don’t cry pardon. I have said that I acquit you. But you do not know me; you even doubt my powers. It is laughable! Believe me, there is greatness in me. It would astonish you.”
“Not at all,” said Sir Anthony politely.
“But yes! I doubt now that you, even you whom I would embrace as a son, have not the soul to appreciate me. You make it plain. I pity you, sir!”
“At least I have the soul to appreciate your daughter,” mildly remarked Sir Anthony.
“That I expect,” said his lordship loftily. “To see my daughter is to become her slave. I exact such homage on her behalf. She is incomparably lovely. But I — I am different. My children are very well. They have beauty, and wit — a little. But in me there is a subtlety such as you don’t dream of, sir.” He pondered it sadly. “I have never met the man who had vision large enough to appreciate my genius,” he said simply. “Perhaps it was not to be expected.”
“I shall hope to have my vision enlarged as I become better acquainted with you, sir,” Sir Anthony replied, with admirable gravity.
My lord shook his head. He could not believe in so large a comprehension. “I shall stand alone to the end,” he said. “It is undoubtedly my fate.”
Sir Anthony gave the conversation a dexterous turn: the old gentleman seemed to be in danger of slipping into mournful contemplation of his own unappreciated greatness. “Just as you please, sir, but I want to put an end to a notion Prudence has of emulating your noble solitude. I wish to take her out of this masquerade, and have her safe under the protection of my name.”