“Enormously. You see, I am always an alien among English people.”
Agnes, following an instinct of kindness, pressed her arm and murmured, “No, no.”
“Yes, my dear, yes. And this is why I am devoted to Mr. Disraeli, and so much interested in Robert Orange. We three are citizens of the world.”
“But English people who have lived, for any length of time, abroad are quite as sensible and tolerant as you are. Take Mr. Rennes, of whom we are just speaking.”
“To be sure. But artists and poets are like stars—they belong to no land. A strictly national painter or a strictly national poet is bound to be parochial—a kind of village pump. And you may write inscriptions all over him, and build monuments above him, but he remains a pump by a local spring. David Rennes is a genius.”
“I am glad you think so,” said Agnes, with flushing cheeks. “I wonder whether he will ever be an Academician?”
“Would you feel more sure of his gifts—in that case?”
There was a slight note of sarcasm in the question.
“It is stupid of me, I know,” said Agnes frankly, “but one can't help feeling rather shy until one's opinions are officially endorsed.”
“How British!”