“I cannot be mistaken; you would be the first at any other time to admit that I could tell whether a man was good or evil on a very brief acquaintance. With every regard for your favour to the Chamberlain, I cannot stand the man. If my instinct did not tell me he was vicious, my ears would, for I hear many stories little to his credit.”
“And yet a brave man, goodwife, a faithful servant and an interesting fellow. Come now! Jean, is it not so?”
She merely smiled, patting his ruffles with delicate fondling fingers. It was never her habit to argue with her Duke.
“What!” he cried smilingly, “none of that, but contradict me if you dare.”
“I never contradict his Grace the Duke of Argyll,” said she, stepping back and sweeping the floor with her gown in a stately courtesy; “it is not right, and it is not good for him—at his age.”
“Ah, you rogue!” he cried, laughing. “But soberly now, you are too hard on poor Sim. It is the worst—the only vice of good women that they have no charity left for the imperfect either of their own sex or of mine. Let us think what an atom of wind-blown dust is every human being at the best, bad or good in his blood as his ancestry may have been, kind or cruel, straight or crooked, pious or pagan, admirable or evil, as the accidents of his training or experience shall determine. As I grow older I grow more tolerant, for I have learned that my own scanty virtues and graces are no more my own creation than the dukedom I came into from my father—or my red hair.”
“Not red, Archie,” said the Duchess, “not red, but reddish fair; in fact, a golden;” and she gently pulled a curl upon his temple. “What about our Frenchman? Is he to lie in the fosse till the Sheriff sends for him or till the great MacCailen Mor has forgiven him for telling him he was a little over the age of thirty?”
“For once, my dear, you cannot have your way,” said the Duke firmly. “Be reasonable! We could not tolerate so scandalous an affair without some show of law and—”
“Tolerate!” said the Duchess. “You are very hard on poor Montaiglon, Archie, and all because he fought a duel with a doubtful gentleman who will be little the worse for it in a week or two. Let us think,” she went on banteringly—“let us think what an atom of wind-blown dust is every human being at the best, admirable or evil as his training—”
Her husband stopped her with a kiss.