The interest of the main topic must have superseded the purely academical issue. For the lady appeared disposed towards a recapitulation in detail of the incidents referred to. "Gwen went away to Vienna with her mother in the middle of January," said she. "And ...
No--I'm not mistaken. I'm sure I'm right! Because when we came back from Languedoc in June there was not a word of any such thing. And Lord Ancester never breathed as much as a hint. And he certainly _would_ have, under the circumstances. Why don't you speak and agree with me, or contradict me, instead of puffing?"
"Well, my love," said the gentleman apologetically, "you see, my interpretation of your meaning has to be--as it were--constructive.
However, I believe it to be accurate this time. If I understand you rightly ..."
"And you have no excuse for not doing so. For I am sure that what I did say was as clear as daylight."
"Exactly. It is perfectly true that, when we went to Grosvenor Square in June, Tim said nothing about recovery. In fact, as I remember it--only eighteen years is a longish time, you know, to recollect things--he was regularly down in the mouth about the whole concern. I always believed, myself, that he would sooner have had Adrian for Gwen, on any terms, by that time--sooner than she should marry the Hapsburg, certainly. Not that he believed that Gwen was going to cave out!"
"You never said he said that!"
"Because he didn't. He only cautioned me particularly against believing the rubbish that got into the newspapers. I am sure that if he had said anything _then_ about recovery, I should remember it now."
"I suppose you would."
"And then six weeks after that Gwen came tearing home by herself from Vienna. Then the next thing we heard was that he had recovered his eyesight, and they were to be married in the autumn."
This was at the entrance to the tunnel, on the way to the Hippopotamus.
One's voice echoes in this tunnel, and that may have been the reason the conversation paused. Or it may have been that resonance suggests publicity, and this was a private story. Or possibly, no more than mere cogitative silence of the parties. Anyhow, they had emerged into the upper world before either spoke again.
Then said the lady:--"It seems that it comes to the same thing, whichever way we put it. Something happened."
"My dear," replied the gentleman, "you ought to have been on the Bench.
You have the summing-up faculty in the highest degree. Something happened that did not, as the phrase is, come out. But what was it?--that's the point! I believe we shall die without knowing."
"We certainly shall," said Mrs. Percival Pellew--for why should the story conceal her identity? "We certainly shall, if we go over and over and over it, and never get an inch nearer. You know, my dear, if we have talked it over once, we have talked it over five hundred times, and no one is a penny the wiser. You are so vague. What was it I began by saying?"
"That that sort of flash-in-the-pan he had ... when he saw the bust, you know ..."
"I know. Septimius Severus."
"... Was just about the time Sir Coupland Merridew met us at the Kinkajou, and asked for the address in Cavendish Square. That was the end of September. Gwen told you all about it that same evening, and you told me when I came next day."
"I know. The time you spilt the coffee over my poplinette."
"I don't deny it. Well--what was it you meant to say?"
"What about?... Oh, I know--the Septimius Severus business! Nothing came of it. I mean it never happened again."
"I'm--not--so--sure! I fancy Tim thought something of the sort did. But I couldn't say. It's too long ago now to remember anything fresh. That's a Koodoo. If I had horns, I should like that sort."
"Never mind the Koodoo. Go on about Gwen and the blind story. You know we both thought she _was_ going to marry the Hapsburg, and then she turned up quite suddenly and unexpectedly in Cavendish Square, and told Clo Dalrymple she had come back to order her _trousseau_. Then the Earl said that to you about the six months' trial."
"Ye-es. He said she had come home in a fine state of mind, because her mother hadn't played fair. He didn't give particulars, but I could see.
Of course, that story in the papers _may_ have been her mamma's doing.
Very bad policy if it was, with a daughter like that. However, he said it was very near the end of the six months, and after all the whole thing was rather a farce. Besides, Gwen _had_ played fair. So he had let her off three weeks, and she was going down to the Towers at once--which meant, of course, Pensham Steynes."
"And nothing else?"
"Only that he thought on the whole he had better go with her. Can't recall another word, 'pon my honour!"
"I recollect. But he didn't go, because Gwen waited for her mother to come with her. Undoubtedly that was the proper course." This was spoken in a Grundy tone. "But she was very indignant with Philippa about something."
"Philippa was backing the Hapsburg. All that is intelligible. What I want to understand--only we never shall--is how Adrian's eyes came right just at that very moment. Because, when we met him with his sister in London, he was as blind as a bat. And that was at Whitsuntide. You remember?--when his sister begged we wouldn't speak to him about Gwen.
_We_ thought it was the Hapsburg."
"Yes--they were just going back to Pensham after a month in London. She just missed them by a few hours. There was not a word of his being any better then."
"Not a word. Quite the other way. And then in a fortnight, or less, he saw as well as he had ever seen in his life. I don't see any use in putting it down to previous exaggeration, because a man can't see less than nothing, and that's exactly what he did see. Nothing! He told me so himself. Said he couldn't see me, and rather hoped he never should.
Because he had formed a satisfactory image of me in his mind, and didn't want it disturbed by reality."
"He had that curious paradoxical way of talking. I always ascribed the odd things he said to that, more than to any lack of good taste."
"To what?"
"My dear, my meaning is perfectly obvious, so you needn't pretend you don't understand it. I am referring to his very marked individuality, which shows itself in speech, and which no person with any discernment could for one moment suppose to imply defective taste or feeling. He did say odd things, and he does say odd things."
"I can't see anything particularly odd in what he said about me. If a fillah forms a good opinion of another fillah whom he's never seen, obviously the less he sees of him the better. Let well alone, don't you know!"
"That is because you are as paradoxical as he is. All men are. But you might be sensible for once, and talk reasonably."
"Well, then--suppose we do, my dear!" said the gentleman, conciliatorily. "Let me see--what was I going to say just now--at the Koodoo? Awfully sensible thing, only something put it out of my head."
"You must recollect it for yourself," said the lady, with some severity.
"_I_ certainly cannot help you."
The gentleman never seemed to resent what was apparently the habitual manner of his lady wife. He walked on beside her, puffing contentedly, and apparently recollecting abortively; until, to stimulate his memory, she said rather crisply:--"Well?" He then resumed:--"Not so sensible as I thought it was, but somethin' in it for all that! Don't you know, sometimes, when you don't speak on the nail, sometimes, you lose your chance, and then you can't get on the job again, sometimes? You get struck. See what I mean?"
"Perhaps I shall, if you explain it more clearly," said his wife, with civility and forbearance, both of the controversial variety.
"I mean that if I had told Adrian then and there that he was an unreasonable chap to expect anyone to believe that his eyesight came back with a jump, of itself--because that was the tale they told, you know----"
"That was the tale."
"Then very likely he would have told me the whole story. But I was rather an ass, and let the thing slip at the time--and then I couldn't pick it up again. Never got a chance!"
"Precisely. Just like a man! Men are so absurdly secretive with one another. They won't this and they won't that, until one is surprised at nothing. I quite see that you couldn't rake it up now, seventeen years afterwards."
"Seventeen years! Come--I say!"
"Cecily is sixteen in August."
"Well--yes--well!--I suppose she is. I say, Con, that's a queer thing to think of!"
"What is?"
"That we should have a girl of sixteen!"