Carnac smiled. "All genius is at once a blessing or a curse. And what does Denzil think of me?"
"Oh--a blessing and a curse!" she said whimsically.
"I don't honestly think I'm a blessing to anybody in this world. There's no one belonging to me who believes in me."
"There's Denzil," she said. "He believes in you."
"He doesn't belong to me; he isn't my family."
"Who are your family? Is it only those who are bone of your bone and flesh of your flesh? Your family is much wider, because you're a genius. It's worldwide--of all kinds. Denzil belongs to you, because you helped to save him years ago; the Catholic Archbishop belongs to you, because he's got brains and a love of literature and art; Barode Barouche belongs to you, because he's almost a genius too."
"Barouche is a politician," said Carnac with slight derision.
"That's no reason why he shouldn't be a genius."
"He's a Frenchman."
"Haven't Frenchmen genius?" asked the girl.
Carnac laughed. "Why, of course. Barode Barouche--yes, he's a great one: he can think, he can write, and he can talk; and the talking's the best that he does--though I've not heard him speak, but I've read his speeches."
"Doesn't he make good laws at Ottawa?"
"He makes laws at Ottawa--whether they're good or not is another question. I shouldn't be a follower of his, if I had my chance though."
"That's because you're not French."
"Oh yes, I'm as French as can be! I felt at home with the French when I was in France. I was all Gallic. When I'm here I'm more Gallic than Saxon.
"I don't understand it. Here am I, with all my blood for generations Saxon, and yet I feel French. If I'd been born in the old country, it would have been in Limerick or Tralee. I'd have been Celtic there."
"Yet Barode Barouche is a great man. He gets drunk sometimes, but he's great. He gets hold of men like Denzil."
"Denzil has queer tastes."
"Yes--he worships you."
"That's not queer, it's abnormal," said Carnac with gusto.
"Then I'm abnormal," she said with a mocking laugh, and swung her hat on her fingers like a wheel. Something stormy and strange swam in Carnac's eyes. All his trouble rushed back on him; the hand in his pocket crushed the venomous letter he had received, but he said: "No, you don't worship me!"