“But you like it?” said Rowland.
“Like it? It ‘s a pearl of pearls. Tell me this,” he added: “is he very fond of his mother; is he a very good son?” And he gave Rowland a sharp look.
“Why, she adores him,” said Rowland, smiling.
“That ‘s not an answer! But it ‘s none of my business. Only if I, in his place, being suspected of having—what shall I call it?—a cold heart, managed to do that piece of work, oh, oh! I should be called a pretty lot of names. Charlatan, poseur, arrangeur! But he can do as he chooses! My dear young man, I know you don’t like me,” he went on, as Roderick came back. “It ‘s a pity; you are strong enough not to care about me at all. You are very strong.”
“Not at all,” said Roderick curtly. “I am very weak!”
“I told you last year that you would n’t keep it up. I was a great ass. You will!”
“I beg your pardon—I won’t!” retorted Roderick.
“Though I ‘m a great ass, all the same, eh? Well, call me what you will, so long as you turn out this sort of thing! I don’t suppose it makes any particular difference, but I should like to say now I believe in you.”
Roderick stood looking at him for a moment with a strange hardness in his face. It flushed slowly, and two glittering, angry tears filled his eyes. It was the first time Rowland had ever seen them there; he saw them but once again. Poor Gloriani, he was sure, had never in his life spoken with less of irony; but to Roderick there was evidently a sense of mockery in his profession of faith. He turned away with a muttered, passionate imprecation. Gloriani was accustomed to deal with complex problems, but this time he was hopelessly puzzled. “What ‘s the matter with him?” he asked, simply.
Rowland gave a sad smile, and touched his forehead. “Genius, I suppose.”