“It has got that appearance,” he said quickly, “but these things spread so fast, and it had to be stopped before it brought you into trouble. Look here, Usk, I want you to give this thing up, and I’ll tell you my reasons.”
“Yes, sir?” and Usk prepared himself to listen.
“Well, the first is that I’m an old man, and I can’t do without you. My father’s elder brother, your great-uncle, went off to fight for Greece, as you know, and never came back. I can’t give you up for that sort of thing at my age. Is that enough for you, Usk?”
“Certainly, if you put it in that way.”
Lord Caerleon’s eyes glistened, but he went on gruffly enough.
“My second reason is that you are not the man for it. Oh, I know that you would look the part all right, and do your utmost to make the thing a success, but there’s more worldly wisdom in Cyril’s little finger than in your whole body. If the fools had only thought of offering the crown to him, he would be at the head of a Balkan Confederacy in a month, but you—— The fact is, Usk, you are too English—you don’t know when you’re beaten. Instead of taking a licking quietly, you are up again as soon as you come to, and fighting with all the breath knocked out of you. As for Cyril, he will have made it up with the other chap after the first round, and started ahead to choose his own ground, ready for another fight when it’s necessary, and that time Cyril will win.”
“Shall I advise Drakovics to transfer his offer to Cyril, then?”
“Certainly not. I don’t intend to subsidise a bankrupt Balkan State out of my rents, and I have no wish that you should be obliged to do it either. Cyril will come to smash quite soon enough without a crown to drag him down. He is so sharp that he is bound to go too far some day. No, Usk, you are the man for it if there was a fair field, but there isn’t, and I can’t stand your going off and being shot or dynamited by Scythian agents.”
“But Mrs Sadleir must have known what Drakovics wanted, and yet she said nothing to dissuade me from accepting the crown.”
“I daresay not. Women are always ready to send out sons and lovers on forlorn hopes—especially other people’s sons and lovers. It requires a practical, unromantic man to look into the thing first, and decide whether the game is worth the candle. Mrs Sadleir is as sensible a woman generally as any I know, but she has not outlived her enthusiasms yet, and she is quite ready to give Thracia a king at my expense, and I don’t see it. When I’m gone, it will be a different thing. You will have only yourself to please then, but the Thracians will probably have killed or banished two or three kings, and run through a few republics, by that time. In any case, I ask you, as a favour to me, to refuse this offer now.”