The Tenor reflected for a little. "If I were to make you my confidant,
Boy, would you respect my confidence?" he said at last.
"Assuredly," the Boy replied. "I promise on my honour. You shall tell her yourself."
The Tenor ignored this last impertinence, but the Boy was not abashed. "Israfil," he pursued, "they say you are the son of an actress and some great nobleman, and that when you found it out, your intolerable pride made you give up your profession, and come and bury yourself alive in Morningquest because you could not bear the stigma. Are you the son of such parents, Israfil?"
The Tenor brushed his hand back over his hair. "Has your sister heard these reports?" he asked.
"Yes."
"And what does she say?"
"Oh, she doesn't mind! She rather leans to the nobleman theory; and when people of that kind—I mean the nobility and gentry," he exclaimed with a grin—"(the worst of being in society is that you are forced to know so many disreputable people); when they come to our house—and they do come in shoals, Angelica being the attraction, you know—then we speculate. Angelica feels quite sure that the Duke of Morningquest himself is your father. He was a loose old fish, they say. And there is a sort of family likeness between you. Angelica thinks you came here that your presence might be a continual reproach to him."
"Not a very worthy thought," said the Tenor drily.
"Well," said the Boy with much candour. "I could not swear it was
Angelica's. It has a strong family likeness to some of my own."
"It has," said the Tenor.