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Updated: June 29, 2025
"I did hope that Margaret, with her looks, would marry brilliantly." Peter Verelst bent over his coffee. "The young man next door?" Out of the corner of an eye Mrs. Austen glanced at Paliser and then back at Verelst. "Well, something of the kind." Verelst raised his cup. He had known Lennox' father. He knew and liked the son.
Jones had no intention of looking at pippins. What he had in mind was fruit of another variety. It was some distance away. Before he could make an appreciable move toward it, Verelst, who had turned from him, turned back. "There!" Beyond, through the high-arched entrance, a man was limping. He had the battered face of an old bulldog and the rumpled clothes of a young ruffian. "There's Dunwoodie!"
By the Lord Harry, the more I consider it, the more convinced I become that there is nothing else worth having. Niente, nada, rien. Nothing whatever." Verelst smiled. "In that case it is hardly worth while getting excited over it." He raised the lapel of his coat. There were violets in it. He took a whiff and added: "Has Lennox been here to-day?" But Jones did not know.
Austen's smile deepened. "Would you like to have one?" "With your daughter, yes." Et moi donc! thought this lady, who, like others of our aristocracy, occasionally lapsed into French. But she said: "Why not enter the lists?" "I thought they were closed." "Are they ever?" But now Verelst addressed the too charming young man. "How is your father?" "In his usual poor health, thank you."
"It is none the less suggestive. The death-bed was invented." "M. P. may have recovered." "Yes, men of his age make a practice of jumping into their death-bed and then jumping out. It is good for them. It keeps them in training." "Oh, rubbish!" Verelst resentfully exclaimed. "No," Jones pursued. "The story was invented and the invention had a reason. If you like, you may ask what it is."
"Don't be coarse, Peter, and if possible don't be stupid. If you know anything against Monty, say it I may find it in his favour." Impatiently Verelst motioned. "Decent men avoid him." "And you!" Mrs. Austen retorted. "What do you call yourself? You are always civil to him." Verelst showed his teeth. "One of the few things life has taught me is to be civil to everybody." "Except to me.
But what visible sweepstakes are there except M. P.'s son? You and M. P. are friends. It is only natural that you should ask about him." Verelst turned uneasily. "I don't yet see how you got it. The only thing I said is that I heard he was dying." "And five minutes ago you exclaimed at his resurrection. There is a discrepancy there that is very suggestive." "It is none of my making then."
But because of Lennox the whole matter has preoccupied me and quite as much, I daresay, as it has distressed you." "I don't see at all what you have to do with it." "Perhaps not. But preoccupation may lead to crystal-gazing. Now I will wager a red pippin that I can tell what you said at the steeplechase to the steeplestakes. You asked after his father." Verelst stared.
He knew that the reader always balks unless the hero gets the heroine firsthand and he had thought of making the villain an invalid. Yet at that too he knew the reader would balk. The reader is so nice-minded! Now, the plot recurring, he said to Verelst: "Your knowledge of women has, I am sure, made you indulgent." "Not in the least." "But " "Look here," Verelst interrupted.
"Well, what now?" Verelst, adjusting his glasses, said, and distantly enough: "What now? No, what next?" Mrs. Austen sat down. "Peter, if you ever loved me, don't adopt that tone." "It is not the tone, it is the tune and the tune is yours." "Tune? What tune? What on earth are you talking about?" "The tune to which the dinner was set. I heard it. Margaret heard it. It knocked her out."
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