“Denzil will be glad to see you. He almost thinks I’m a curse.”
Carnac smiled. “All genius is at once a blessing or a curse. And what does Denzil think of me?”
“Oh—a blessing and a curse!” she said whimsically.
“I don’t honestly think I’m a blessing to anybody in this world. There’s no one belonging to me who believes in me.”
“There’s Denzil,” she said. “He believes in you.”
“He doesn’t belong to me; he isn’t my family.”
“Who are your family? Is it only those who are bone of your bone and flesh of your flesh? Your family is much wider, because you’re a genius. It’s worldwide—of all kinds. Denzil belongs to you, because you helped to save him years ago; the Catholic Archbishop belongs to you, because he’s got brains and a love of literature and art; Barode Barouche belongs to you, because he’s almost a genius too.”
“Barouche is a politician,” said Carnac with slight derision.
“That’s no reason why he shouldn’t be a genius.”
“He’s a Frenchman.”