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Updated: June 24, 2025
I rejoined that I was stupefied to see him attach such importance even to the word of Mr. Vereker. He inquired thereupon whether I treated Mr. Vereker's word as a lie. I wasn't perhaps prepared, in my unhappy rebound, to go as far as that, but I insisted that till the contrary was proved I should view it as too fond an imagination.
They would scarce have got so wound up, I think, if they hadn't been in love: poor Vereker's inner meaning gave them endless occasion to put and to keep their young heads together.
None the less it represented the kind of problem for which Corvick had a special aptitude, drew out the particular pointed patience of which, had he lived, he would have given more striking and, it is to be hoped, more fruitful examples. He at least was, in Vereker's words, a little demon of subtlety.
I had caught Vereker's glance as he spoke, but Miss Poyle's surprise was a fortunate cover for my own. "You mean he doesn't do you justice?" said the excellent woman. Vereker laughed out, and I was happy to be able to do the same. "It's a charming article," he tossed us. Miss Poyle thrust her chin half across the cloth. "Oh, you're so deep!" she drove home. "As deep as the ocean!
That's of course a selfish solicitude, and I name it to you for what it may be worth to you. If you're disposed to humour me, don't repeat my revelation. Think me demented it's your right; but don't tell anybody why." The sequel to this communication was that as early on the morrow as I dared I drove straight to Mr. Vereker's door.
"Daisy Vereker has promised to meet me, and as she is only here a week on her way to school in Paris I should hate to disappoint her." The two girls were lingering now about the grass arena, talking volubly, whispering, giggling. Miss Vereker's maid, a yellow-haired Swiss, sat not far off with her knitting, and every now and then she called harshly to her charge to know the time.
Here, the sight of Colonel Vereker's grand figure one that would be remarkable anywhere, towering above the rail and almost herculean in its massive proportions, coupled with the sad look in his noble face, and which reminded me somehow or other of one of the pictures of the old Cavaliers of the Stuart days, made me resent the more the baseless imputation of his being an imposter.
He had begun on the spot, for one of the quarterlies, a great last word on Vereker's writings, and this exhaustive study, the only one that would have counted, have existed, was to turn on the new light, to utter oh, so quietly! the unimagined truth. It was in other words to trace the figure in the carpet through every convolution, to reproduce it in every tint.
He had hold of the tail of something; he would pull hard, pull it right out. He pumped me dry on Vereker's strange confidence and, pronouncing me the luckiest of mortals, mentioned half a dozen questions he wished to goodness I had had the gumption to put. Yet on the other hand he didn't want to be told too much it would spoil the fun of seeing what would come.
I wish I could believe that Nicky and Drayton really had had a hand in it. I'm most awfully grieved to hear that young Vereker's reported missing. Do you remember how excited he used to be dashing about the lawn at tennis, and how Alice Lathom used to sit and look at him, and jump if you brought her her tea too suddenly?
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