Mr. Witt's Widow: A Frivolous Tale

“It isn’t my moral,” Vane went on.

“Your moral?”

“No. I took it from the Bull’s-eye.”

George groaned.

“They announce the marriage to-night, and add that they have reason to believe that the engagement has come about largely through the joint interest of the parties in l’affaire Neston.”

“I should say they are unusually accurate.”

“Meaning thereby, to those who have eyes, that she’s jilted you because of your goings-on, and taken up with Tommy. In consequence, you are to-night ‘pointing a moral and adorning a tale.’”

“The devil!”

“Yes, not very soothing, is it? But so it is. I looked in at Mrs. Pocklington’s, and they were all talking about it.”

“The Pocklingtons were?”

“Yes. And they asked me – ”

“Who asked you?”

“Oh, Violet Fitzderham and Laura Pocklington, – if it was the fact that you were in love with Miss Bourne.”

“And what did you say?”

“I said it was matter of notoriety.”

“Confound your gossip! There’s not a word of truth in it.”

“I didn’t say there was. I said it was a matter of notoriety. So it was.”

“And did they believe it?”

“Did who believe it?” asked Vane, smiling slightly.

“Oh, Miss Pocklington, and – and the other girl.”

“Yes, Miss Pocklington and the other girl, I think, believed it.”

“What did they say?”

“The other girl said it served you right.”

“And – ?”

“And Miss Pocklington said it was time for some music.”

“Upon my soul, it’s too bad!”

“My dear fellow, you know you were in love with her – in your fishlike kind of way. Only you’ve forgotten it. One does forget it when – ”

“Well?” asked George.

“When one’s in love with another girl. Ah, George, you can’t escape my eagle eye! I saw your game, and I did you a kindness.”

George thought it no use trying to keep his secret. “That’s your idea of a kindness, is it?”

“Certainly. I’ve made her jealous.”

“Really,” said George, haughtily, “I think this discussion of ladies’ feelings is hardly in good taste.”

“Quite right, old man,” answered Vane, imperturbably. “It’s lucky that didn’t strike you before you’d heard all you wanted to.”

“I say, Vane,” said George, leaning forward, “did she seem – ”

“Miss Pocklington, or the other girl?”

“Oh, damn the other girl! Did she, Vane, old boy?”

“Yes, she did, a little, George, old boy.”

“I’m a fool,” said George.

“Oh, I don’t know,” said Vane, tolerantly. “I’m always a fool myself about these things.”

“I must go and see them to-morrow. No, I can’t go to-morrow; I have to go out of town.”

“Ah! where?”

“Liverpool, on business.”

“Liverpool, on business! Dear me! I’ll tell you another odd thing, George, – a coincidence.”

“Well?”

“You’re going to Liverpool to-morrow on business. Well, to-day, Mrs. Witt went to Liverpool on business.”

“The devil!” said George, for the second time.

CHAPTER XI.

PRESENTING AN HONEST WOMAN

To fit square pegs into round holes is one of the favourite pastimes of Nature. She does it roughly, violently, and with wanton disregard of the feelings of the square pegs. When, in her relentless sport, she has at last driven the poor peg in and made it fit, by dint of knocking off and abrading all its corners, philosophers glorify her, calling the process evolution, and plain men wonder why she did not begin at the other end, and make the holes square to fit the pegs.

The square peg on which these trite reflections hang is poor Neaera Witt. Nature made her a careless, ease-loving, optimistic creature, only to drive her, of malice prepense, into an environment – that is to say, in unscientific phrase, a hole – where she had need of the equipment of a full-blooded conspirator.