“Good heavens, my dear boy, if you always go about saying just what you think, you will find the world too hot to hold you. To say the least of it, you will never be fit for society.”
“I don’t want to be fit for it,” said Féraz disdainfully, “if Lady Melthorpe’s ‘at home’ is a picture of it. I want to forget it,—the most of it, I mean. I shall remember Madame Vassilius because she is sympathetic and interesting. But for the rest!—my dearest brother, I am far happier with you.”
El-Râmi took his arm gently.
“Yet you leave me to-morrow to gratify an artist’s whim!” he said. “Have you thought of that?”
“Oh, but that is nothing—only an hour or two’s sitting. He was so very anxious that I could not refuse. Does it displease you?”
“My dear Féraz, I am displeased at nothing. You complained of my authority over you once—and I have determined you shall not complain again. Consider yourself free.”
“I do not want my liberty,” said Féraz almost petulantly.
“Try it!” responded El-Râmi with a smile and half a sigh. “Liberty is sweet,—but, like other things, it brings its own responsibilities.”
They walked on till they had almost reached their own door.
“Your story of the priest Philemon was very quaint and pretty,” said El-Râmi then abruptly. “You meant it as a sort of allegory for me, did you not?”