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Updated: July 22, 2025
He is challenged to guess which of the ladies is the frail one; and he is far too intent on this game to think or care about the emotional process of the play. But whether we guess right or wrong, this clue-hunting is an intellectual sport, not an artistic enjoyment. If there is any aesthetic quality in the play, it can only come home to us when we know the secret.
"But we're fairly in the cart," George summed up. "We are, you know." His ridiculous Mary gave him that lovers' ridiculous specific. "We've got each other," she told him, snuggling to him. George kissed her. He fumbled in his pockets. "I've got just about three pounds over from what Marrapit gave me for the clue-hunting. I say, Mary, it's pretty awful." She snuggled the closer.
Bill passed over the matches again, waited till Antony had relit his pipe, and then held out his hand for them, just as they were going into the other's pocket. "Yes," said Bill thoughtfully. "Yes.... But wait a moment. What about the 'Plough and Horses'?" Antony looked comically at him. "You'll never forgive me, Bill," he said. "You'll never come clue-hunting with me again." "What do you mean?"
However, I examined them with every appearance of pleasure, thanked Jock effusively and even gave him a sixpence, and at last bade him good-day and started for home. It had been a queer little episode, and had I been in my usual clue-hunting humour I should no doubt have dissected it carefully and then abused myself for being a fanciful fool.
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