“Never mind, you old care-taker! We Middletons carry sail enough to need a ton or two of lead in our keel.”
“But, you understand?”—
“I understand the distinction between what I call your good blood, and the sort of blood I thought you had. It explains a certain funny way you have with arms—weapons. Do you mind?”
“Not at all,” said Paul coldly. “I hate a weapon. I am always ashamed of myself when I get one in my hand.”
“You act that way, dear!”
“God made tools and the Devil made weapons.”
“You are civil to my father's profession.”
“Your father is what he is aside from his profession.”
“You are quite mistaken, Paul. My father and his profession are one. His sword is a symbol of healing. The army is the great surgeon of the nation when the time comes for a capital operation.”
“It grows harder to tell my story,” said Paul gloomily;—“the short and simple annals of the poor.”