“The gold-fish,” his guest murmured. “Eaten alive ... what an end!”
Dr. Franchi's delicate, dark Latin brows rose.
“The gold-fish? Ah, my wicked Pellico.... I cannot keep him from the bowl, the rascal. I regret that he so upset you. But the sensibility of gold-fish is not great, surely? As the peasants say, non son chretiani loro!”
“Forgive me. To see a live fish devoured ... it took me unawares.... I shall be all right soon....”
As from a great distance Henry, still fighting the sensation of nausea, was half aware of the ex-cardinal's piercing eyes fixed on him with extraordinary intensity.
“I am all right now,” said Henry. “A momentary faintness—quite absurd.... I expect gold-fish do not really feel either emotion or pain. They say that fish do not feel hooks. Or worms, either.... They say all sorts of comforting things about this distressing world, don't they. One should try to believe them all....”
“You are,” said Dr. Franchi quietly, “if I may say so, a decidedly unusual young man.”
“Indeed, no,” said Henry. “But I have encroached on you long enough. I must go.”