‘I’m only still learning the fundamentals,’ Robin said. ‘We have two years of coursework, then one year of apprenticeship on one of the floors, and then I’ll be engraving bars on my own.’
‘Can you show us?’ Pendennis asked. ‘Could I do it?’
‘It wouldn’t work for you.’
‘Why not?’ Pendennis asked. ‘I know Latin and Greek.’
‘You don’t know them well enough,’ said Robin. ‘You’ve got to live and breathe a language, not just muddle through a text now and then. Do you dream in languages other than English?’
‘Do you?’ Pendennis shot back.
‘Well, of course,’ said Robin. ‘After all, I’m a Chinaman.’
The room lapsed once again into uncertain silence. Robin decided to put them out of their misery. ‘Thank you for the invitation,’ he said, standing up. ‘But I ought to head to the library.’
‘Of course,’ said Pendennis. ‘I’m sure they keep you very busy.’
No one said anything as Robin retrieved his coat. Pendennis watched him lazily through lidded eyes, slowly sipping his Madeira. Colin was blinking very rapidly; his mouth opened once or twice, but nothing came out. Milton made a desultory gesture at getting up to walk him to the door, but Robin waved him back down.
‘You can find your way out?’ Pendennis asked.
‘I’m sure I’m fine,’ Robin called over his shoulder as he left. ‘This place isn’t that large.’
The next morning, he recounted everything to his cohort to uproarious laughter.
‘Recite his poem again to me,’ Victoire begged. ‘Please.’
‘I don’t remember it all,’ said Robin. ‘But let me think – wait, yes, there was another line, the blood of a nation ran in his noble cheeks—’
‘No – oh, God—’
‘And the spirit of Waterloo in his widow’s peak—’
‘I don’t know what you’re all talking about,’ said Ramy. ‘The man’s a poetic genius.’
Only Letty did not laugh. ‘I’m sorry you didn’t have a good time,’ she said frostily.
‘You were right,’ Robin said, trying to be generous. ‘They’re fools, all right? I should never have abandoned your side, dear, sweet, sober Letty. You are always right about everything.’
Letty did not respond. She picked up her books, dusted off her trousers, and stormed out of the Buttery. Victoire stood halfway up as if about to chase after her, then sighed, shook her head, and sat down.
‘Let her go,’ Ramy said. ‘Let’s not spoil a good afternoon.’
‘Is she like this always?’ Robin asked. ‘I can’t see how you can stand living with her.’
‘You rile her up,’ Victoire said.
‘Don’t defend her—’
‘You do,’ said Victoire. ‘You both do, don’t pretend otherwise; you like making her snap.’
‘Only because she’s so up her own backside all the time,’ Ramy scoffed. ‘Is she an entirely different person with you, then, or have you merely adapted?’
Victoire glanced back and forth between them. She seemed to be trying to decide something. Then she asked, ‘Did you know she had a brother?’
‘What, some nabob in Calcutta?’ Ramy asked.
‘He’s dead,’ said Victoire. ‘He died a year ago.’