“My exile is a cage of invisibility for me,” answered Mr. Grant. “I find few to see and recognize me, but that does not prevent me from seeing and recognizing much that is familiar. I find that England stands where it did, and is none the less homelike for having forgotten me. Indeed, one may say, without being cynical, that the memory of old friends is almost as pleasant, and in some respects more convenient, than their presence would be.”
The Marquise laughed. “I think your old friends might call that cynical, if they could hear it.”
“You would recognize its truth in your own case,” said Mr. Grant, half interrogatively.
She lifted her eyebrows, as if the remark required explanation.
“An old fellow like me sometimes knows more about the origins of the younger generation than they know themselves. I had the honor of your acquaintance when you were learning to say ‘Papa,’ and wore little pink slippers.”
“Ah!” murmured the Marquise, looking at him keenly. “Then....” she paused.
“And your father also,” said Mr. Grant, in a low voice.
“Sir Francis Bendibow,” said Perdita, after a pause.
Mr. Grant met her glance, and said nothing.
“Now I think of it,” remarked Perdita, tapping her chin lightly with the handle of her fan. “I am inclined to agree with you. Memories may sometimes be more convenient than presence.”