"Of course, poor man," sympathised the Duchessa. "It's a
recognised principle that if you save a fellow's life, you 're
bound to him for the rest of yours. But--but won't you find
him rather a burdensome responsibility when he's grownup?" she
reflected.
"--Que voulez-vous?" reflected Peter. "Burdensome
responsibilities are the appointed accompaniments of man's
pilgrimage. Why not Francois Villon, as well as another? And
besides, as the world is at present organised, a member of the
class vulgarly styled 'the rich' can generally manage to shift
his responsibilities, when they become too irksome, upon the
backs of the poor. For example--Marietta! Marietta!" he
called, raising his voice a little, and clapping his hands.
Marietta came. When she had made her courtesy to the Duchessa,
and a polite enquiry as to her Excellency's health, Peter said,
with an indicative nod of the head, "Will you be so good as to
remove my responsibility?"
"Il porcellino?" questioned Marietta.
"Ang," said he.
And when Marietta had borne Francois, struggling and squealing
in her arms, from the foreground-"There--you see how it is done," he remarked.
The Duchessa laughed.
"An object-lesson," she agreed. "An object-lesson in--might
n't one call it the science of Applied Cynicism?"
"Science!" Peter plaintively repudiated the word. "No, no. I
was rather flattering myself it was an art."
"Apropos of art--" said the Duchessa.
She came down two or three steps nearer to the brink of the
river. She produced from behind her back a hand that she had
kept there, and held up for Peter's inspection a grey-and-gold
bound book.
"Apropos of art, I've been reading a novel. Do you know it?"
Peter glanced at the grey-and-gold binding--and dissembled the
emotion that suddenly swelled big in his heart.
He screwed his eyeglass into his eye, and gave an intent look.
"I can't make out the title," he temporised, shaking his head,
and letting his eyeglass drop.
On the whole, it was very well acted; and I hope the occult
little smile that played about the Duchessa's lips was a smile
of appreciation.
"It has a highly appropriate title," she said. "It is called
'A Man of Words,' by an author I've never happened to hear of
before, named Felix Wildmay."
"Oh, yes. How very odd," said Peter. "By a curious chance, I
know it very well. But I 'm surprised to discover that you do.
How on earth did it fall into your hands?"