“Lascelles,” said he, “you have a very weak case. And I feel bound to say that the manner in which you present it does not, in my opinion, make it stronger.”
“I expect not,” said Jim, ruefully. “But dash it all, what is a fellow to do if she will come and sit on that sofa and pose like Romney’s Emma?”
“His duty is absolutely clear to my mind, and I think it is simple. He should order the intruder out of the room.”
“Oh yes, I know,” said Jim, “that is what a really strong chap would do.” Jim gave a groan. “I know that is what a Velasquez or a Rembrandt would have done. And he would have cursed her like fury for sitting there at all.”
“Yes, I think so,” said the mellifluous Cheriton. “Rembrandt especially. In my opinion, Rembrandt would have shaken his fist at her.”
“That is the worst of being a mediocrity,” said Jim, gloomily. “It takes a chap with enormous character to do these things.”
“I am afraid, Lascelles, the plea of mediocrity will do nothing for you. If anything, it weakens your case. Personally, if I were advising you I should say either put in a plea of consummate genius or do not put in a plea at all.”
“I am not such a fool as to believe that I’m a genius,” said Jim, with excellent frankness.
“I am not such a fool as to believe you are either,” said Cheriton, with a frankness that was equally excellent. “And therefore, examining your conduct with all the leniency the circumstances will permit, I am unable to find any palliation for it. I fear my old friend Lady Crewkerne is much annoyed—forgive my plainness, Lascelles, but I feel it to be necessary—by your intrepidity in copying her niece instead of her Gainsborough; and I, as an old friend of the house, feel bound to share her disapproval.”
“Rub it in, Lord Cheriton,” said Jim.