If Clerivault was for one part in three a rational and incorruptible sobriety, he was for the other two a fantastic braggart, and a liar of that splendid order which soars easily above the possibilities, and will not be baulked in its romances for the insignificant reason that the evidences of their untruth are there for anyone who likes to consult them. And as to making himself the hero of his own imaginings, after all, if one _is_ inventing, it would be the merest quixotry to allot to another the brightest part in one’s extravaganzas. He was, in fact, exactly as his master had described him, a tridimensional mixture of gentleman, rhapsodist, and coxcomb, the whole being held together like a bunch of wind-giddy feathers in a jackanapes’ cap, by the steadfast jewel of fidelity. Brion came very early to see into what was in truth a quite lovable transparency in his comrade, and, while measuring him leniently, to take a rather wicked pleasure in drawing him out and on, withal with a due consideration for his feelings. He was careful, for one thing, not again to offend that super-patriotism which was such a fervid quality in the dear fantastic--on the principle, possibly, that your convert is ever your ultra dogmatist. But, however that might be--and trustworthy evidence on his own part was not to be hoped of Harlequin; perhaps he himself was ignorant of his origin--love of his England glowed like a fierce fire in his bosom. He often rhapsodised on the great vague things he and Brion were destined in good time to accomplish for their country; he would rant and hyperbolise in mystic terms, touched with real vision, on her mighty destiny. The boy would mark him, with a whimsical gravity, and wonder what great place he supposed Fate had assigned him in her scheme of things. He hardly appeared the sort of instrument she would choose for carving a way to new dominion: even, soldierly, Brion had already a secret suspicion that he was not quite the shrewd swordsman he professed, since he himself, for all his inexperience, could sometimes better him at the foils. But certainly he was full of gas; and that might exalt him. The young rascal delighted to supply the fuel for that expansion. ‘Clerivault,’ he said once, ‘it would seem that my Uncle, from what he let fall to me, holds you in great esteem.’ He could venture on so much, while remembering the Judge’s warning. He would have liked to hear Clerivault’s own version of the dramatic happenings which had first outlawed, then inlawed him, so to speak, on the principle, one might assume, of setting a thief to catch a thief; but he could not admit a knowledge of the facts without betraying the great man’s confidence. The other smoothed his chin, with an ineffably complacent expression. ‘Ha!’ said he. ‘He might admit he has reason.’ ‘I know,’ said the boy, nodding his head soberly. ‘It is not every man’s good fortune to be gifted with a paragon.’