‘At all events,’ put in Margaret, gently, ‘Frank is not alarmed upon his own account.’
‘Gad! that’s true,’ observed the antiquary, drily: ‘he takes care to let us know that these matters are no concern of his. If all these wonderful discoveries that have been vouchsafed to us these last few months should turn out to be so much waste paper, I don’t think he would sleep a wink the worse for it.’
Dennis coloured to his temples, but said nothing. Perhaps he was conscious of shortcoming in Shakespearean enthusiasm, or was aware that he had not shown much exultation over the recent rout of the enemy. Margaret thought he might have said a word or two in self-defence; but what she deemed to be the cause of his silence—namely, that the whole subject of the discoveries was distasteful to him, as being associated, as it certainly was, with William Henry’s success in another matter—was also an excuse for him, and she pitied him with all her heart.
To have defended him in his presence to Mr. Erin would, she felt, have been a cruel kindness, since it might have suggested a feeling more tender than pity; but a certain remorse—it was almost an act of penance—compelled her to speak of the matter afterwards to William Henry.
‘My uncle is very hard upon poor Frank,’ she said, ‘about these manuscripts. I am sure that anything that concerns us concerns him, but he cannot be expected to feel exactly as we do in the matter.’
‘No, I suppose not,’ said William Henry.
‘Well, of course not. It is his way to take things more philosophically than other people. I am sure he looked pleased enough when you confuted Mr. Wallis.’
‘Pleased, but surprised,’ returned the other, drily.
‘Oh, Willie, that is ungenerous of you!’