"It was a pity that poor Ercole drank so much, wasn't it?"
"Why seize upon a trifling matter of that sort when we are considering the man's work?" Mr Ffolliot asked angrily. "For heaven's sake, do not grow into one of those people who only perceive the obvious; whose only knowledge of Cromwell would be that he had a wart on his nose."
"I shouldn't say it was a very trifling matter seeing it killed him—drink I mean, not Cromwell's wart," Mary responded with more spirit than usual. "Vasari says so."
"It is quite possible that he does, but it is not a salient feature."
"A wart on the nose would be a very salient feature," Mary ventured.
"Exactly, that is what you would think and that is what I complain of. It is a strain that runs through the whole of you—except perhaps the Kitten—a dreadful narrowness of vision—don't tell me your sight is good—I'm only referring to your mental outlook. It is the fatal frivolous attitude of mind that always remembers the wholly irrelevant statement that the Earl of Warwick, the King-maker, was born when his mother was fourteen."
"Was he?" Mary exclaimed with deep interest; "how very young to have a baby."
Mr Ffolliot glared at her: "and nothing else," he continued, ignoring the interruption.
"Oh, but I do remember other things about Ercole besides being a drunkard," she protested; "he hated people watching him work, I can understand that, and he was awfully kind and faithful to his master."
"All quite useless and trifling in comparison with what I, myself, have told you of his work, which you evidently don't remember. It is a man's work that matters, not little peculiarities of temperament and character."