Perhaps it was in answer to Carstairs' puzzled look, or perhaps just as the wayward fit took her. Anyhow, she volunteered an explanation.
"The Darwens were French," she said, "a good French family—Huguenots. They came to England about six generations ago. They were fair, but there was once an inter-marriage with a noble Florentine lady, and ever since then there have been occasional dark Darwens. Charlie is one." She threw back her head. There was much pride and something of defiance in her tone.
"Mater, you never told me before."
"My boy, you never asked me."
"No, that's true." Darwen was very silent for some minutes, and Carstairs could find nothing to say. "Then it's possible that I may have some of the blood of Old Nick in me." It was said quite seriously.
Mrs Darwen burst into a harsh scream of charwoman laughter. "My boy, you've got a touch of the devil in you right enough."
"I meant Machiavelli," Darwen explained.
"Who is he?"
"Oh, mater! He was an exceedingly clever Italian. He stripped the common facts of human existence of their halo of sentiment and showed things as they are; here in England we suffer from the despotic sway of a fetish called 'fair play.'"
"Fair play is a jewel," Carstairs observed, doggedly.