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In the vast nave there were relatively few people that is to say, a few hundred, who had sufficient room to move easily to and fro under the eyes of officials. Priam Farll had been admitted through the cloisters, according to the direction printed on the ticket.
Leek?" asked Mr. Crepitude. "Mrs. Farll, if you please," she cheerfully corrected him. "Well, Mrs. Farll, then." "I must say," she remarked conversationally, "it seems queer you should be calling me Mrs. Leek, when they're paying you to prove that I'm Mrs. Farll, Mr. , excuse me, I forget your name."
A New Hat The organist vaulted over his seat, shocked by the outrage. "You really mustn't make that noise," whispered the organist. Priam Farll shook him off. The organist was apparently at a loss what to do. "Who is it?" whispered one of the young men. "Don't know him from Adam!" said the organist with conviction, and then to Priam Farll: "Who are you? You've no right to be here.
"What was your master's full name?" the doctor demanded. And Priam Farll shivered. "Priam Farll," said he weakly. "Not the ?" loudly exclaimed the doctor, whom the hazards of life in London had at last staggered. Priam nodded. "Well, well!" The doctor gave vent to his feelings.
"Is this Mr. Parker's?" Now Parker was not the Dean's name, and Priam knew that it was not. Parker was merely the first name that had come into Priam's cowardly head. "No, it isn't," said the flunkey with censorious lips. "It's the Dean's." "Oh, I beg pardon," said Priam Farll. "I thought it was Mr. Parker's." And he departed.
Not content with making each of his pictures utterly different from all the others, he neglected all the above formalities and yet managed to pile triumph on triumph. There are some men of whom it may be said that, like a punter on a good day, they can't do wrong. Priam Farll was one such. In a few years he had become a legend, a standing side-dish of a riddle.
It was at this point that Priam Farll descried Lady Sophia Entwistle, a tall, veiled figure, in full mourning. She had come among the comparatively unprivileged to his funeral. Doubtless influence such as hers could have obtained her a seat in the transept, but she had preferred the secluded humility of the nave. She had come from Paris for his funeral. She was weeping for her affianced.
Challice could reasonably be expected to grasp their import, much less believe them. "There's been a mistake about the so-called death of Priam Farll." "Yes, a hundred and forty thousand pounds." No, he could enunciate neither the one sentence nor the other.
"Now, when did you come to be perfectly sure that, your husband was the real Priam Farll?" "It was the night of that day when Mr. Oxford came down to see him. He told me all about it then." "Oh! That day when Mr. Oxford paid him five hundred pounds?" "Yes." "Immediately Mr. Oxford paid him five hundred pounds you were ready to believe that your husband was the real Priam Farll.
And, further, she genuinely did cause him to feel that throughout his career he had always missed the very best things of life, through being an uncherished, ingenuous, easily satisfied man. A new sensation for him! For if any male in Europe believed in his own capacity to make others make him comfortable Priam Farll was that male. "I've never been in Putney," he ventured, on a new track.
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