Fancy stood at attention, much perplexed, but flattered. She had wit enough to realise that her master put the question in certain faith that she would endeavour to answer it truthfully.
"I can't tell," she faltered. "Sounds silly, don't it, sir?"
"Not at all. I am wondering how far my patriotism would carry me. What is patriotism, Fancy?"
"Love of country, sir."
"Why do we feel it?"
His keen eyes rested quietly on hers.
Fancy grappled with this, struggling to rise adequately to the occasion.
"I suppose 'tis gratitude, sir."
"Good. But gratitude is imponderable." For an instant he had forgotten that he was talking to his parlourmaid. Beholding a wrinkle, he said quickly: "I mean, that gratitude is not easy to weigh or measure. It is immense," he smiled at her, "when it marches hand in hand with self-interest. It shrinks horribly when self-interest marches or runs in the opposite direction. Do you follow me?"
"Yes, sir; thank you, sir."