“I said so. Yes. I say so again.”
“Ah!” Again that soft, relieved exclamation. Then the Duke paced away to the book-lined wall and back again before continuing. “My friend, your despair comes opportunely to my own. We are desperate both, though in different ways, and it lies within the power of each to serve the other.”
“If I could believe that!”
“You may. The rest depends upon yourself.” He paused a moment, then on a half-humorous note proceeded: “I do not know how much of squeamishness, of what men call honesty, your travels and misfortune may have left you.”
“None that your grace need consider,” said Holles, with some self-derision.
“That is ... very well. Yet, you may find the task distasteful.”
“I doubt it. God knows I’m not fastidious nowadays. But if I do, I will tell you so.”
“Just so.” The Duke nodded, and then—perhaps because of the hesitation that still beset him to make to Holles the proposal that he had in mind—his manner suddenly hardened. It was almost that of the great gentleman speaking to his lackey. “That is why I warn you. For should you wish to tell me so, you will please to tell me without any unnecessary roaring, without the airs of a Bobadil or a Pistol, or any other of your fire-eating, down-at-heel fraternity. You have but to say ‘No,’ and spare me the vapourings of outraged virtue.”
Holles stared at the man in silence for a moment, utterly dumbfounded by his tone. Then he laughed a little.
“It would surprise me to discover that I’ve any virtue left to outrage.”