The anecdote-monger stood silent, quelled by this man's voice.
Then turning to me, the man of the musical voice said, 'I suppose you know something about my friend Lady Sinfi?'
'I do,' I said, 'and I am Cyril Aylwin's kinsman, whom you call his cousin, so perhaps, as every word your friend has said about Sinfi Lovell and me is false, you will allow me to call him a liar.'
A look of the greatest glee at the discomfiture of his companion overspread his face.
'Certainly,' he said with a loud laugh. 'You may call him that, you may even qualify the noun you have used with an adjective if the author of the Proverbial Philosophy can think of one that is properly descriptive and yet not too unparliamentary. So you are Cyril Aylwin's kinsman. I have heard him,' he said, with a smile that he tried in vain to suppress, 'I have heard Cyril expatiate on the various branches of the Aylwin family.'
'I belong to the proud Aylwins,' I said.
The twinkle in his eye made me adore him as he said—'The proud Aylwins. A man who, in a world like this, is proud and knows it, and is proud of confessing his pride, always interests me, but I will not ask you what makes the proud Aylwins proud, sir.'
'I will tell you what makes me proud,' I said: 'my great-grandmother was a full-blooded Gypsy, and I am proud of the descent.'
He came forward and held out his hand and said, 'It is long since I met a man who interested me'—he gave a sigh—'very long; and I hope that you and I may become friends.'
I grasped his hand and shook it warmly.