“You may. The rest depends upon yourself.” He paused a moment, then on a half-humorous note proceeded: “I do not know how much of squeamishness, of what men call honesty, your travels and misfortune may have left you.”
“None that your grace need consider,” said Holles, with some self-derision.
“That is ... very well. Yet, you may find the task distasteful.”
“I doubt it. God knows I’m not fastidious nowadays. But if I do, I will tell you so.”
“Just so.” The Duke nodded, and then--perhaps because of the hesitation that still beset him to make to Holles the proposal that he had in mind--his manner suddenly hardened. It was almost that of the great gentleman speaking to his lackey. “That is why I warn you. For should you wish to tell me so, you will please to tell me without any unnecessary roaring, without the airs of a Bobadil or a Pistol, or any other of your fire-eating, down-at-heel fraternity. You have but to say ‘No,’ and spare me the vapourings of outraged virtue.”
Holles stared at the man in silence for a moment, utterly dumbfounded by his tone. Then he laughed a little.
“It would surprise me to discover that I’ve any virtue left to outrage.”
“All the better,” snapped the Duke. He drew up a chair, and sat down, facing Holles. He leaned forward. “In your time, no doubt, you will have played many parts, Colonel Holles?”
“Have you ever played ... Sir Pandarus of Troy?”
The Duke keenly watched his visitor’s face for some sign of understanding. But the Colonel’s classical education had been neglected.
“I’ve never heard of him. What manner of part may that be?”
His grace did not directly answer. He took another way to his ends.
“Have you ever heard of Sylvia Farquharson?”
Surprised anew, it was a moment before the Colonel answered him.
“Sylvia Farquharson?” he echoed, musing. “I’ve heard the name. Oh! I have it. That was the lady in the sedan-chair your grace rescued yonder in Paul’s Yard on the day we met. Aye, aye. I heard her named at the time. A baggage of a play actress from the Duke’s House, I think. But what has she to do with us?”
“Something I think--unless the stars are wrong. And the stars are never wrong. They stand immutable and true in a false and fickle world. It is written in them--as I have already told you--that we were to meet again, you and I, and be jointly concerned in a fateful matter with one other. That other, my friend, is this same Sylvia Farquharson.”