He was lolling in his deep easy-chair with his hands folded on his vest and his legs crossed, and now he laid his sunny head back wearily against the cushion, and looked up at the ceiling. It was his accustomed attitude in moments of abstraction, and the Boy let him alone for a little, watching him quietly. Then he grew impatient, and broke the silence: "Is it true, Israfil?" he asked.
"Is what true?" lowering his eyes to look at him without changing his position.
"Is it true that you are the son of an actress and a duke?"
"Probably," the Tenor answered; "anything is probable where the most absolute uncertainty prevails."
"Then you don't know who you are?" the Boy exclaimed, in a tone of deep disgust due to baffled curiosity.
"I haven't the most remote idea," said the Tenor.
"I don't believe you."
"Boy, I have already told you that I will not have my word doubted."
"I know," said the Boy. "You are always autocratic. But I can't believe you don't know who you are. It is incredible. You would never give yourself such airs if you hadn't something to go upon. And, besides, you command respect naturally, as well-bred people do. And you have all the manner and bearing of a man accustomed to good society. You have the accent, too, and all the rest of it. The difficulty in your case is to believe in the actress. She was a very superior kind of actress, I suspect. And, at any rate, you must have been brought up and educated by somebody. Do tell me, Israfil. I am burning to know."
"Your curiosity is quite womanish, Boy."