“What!”
“I have no scrap of love for this man.”
Now Radamanth had never heard a word of Pelleas, for Igraine had cautioned Lilith never to speak to her father on the matter. Like many old people who have spent their lives in getting and possessing, he had lost that subtle something that men call “soul.” Sentiment to him was a foolish and troublesome thing when it interfered with material advantage or profit, or barred out Mammon, with its rod twined with red roses. Consequently he was taken aback by Igraine’s cool reception of so momentous a blessing. He sat bolt upright in his chair and stared at her.
“My dear niece.”
There was such chagrin in his voice that Igraine, remembering his many kindnesses, hung her head and felt unhappy.
“Do not be angry,” she said; “I do not wish you to speak of this more.”
“But, my dear child, the honour, the fame, the noise of it!”
Igraine almost smiled at his palpable dismay, for she knew that her words must have flustered him not a little. Radamanth mopped his bald head, for the season was sultry.
“I am astounded,” he said.
“Uncle!”