FLIGHTS OF FANCY
CORIN looked dubiously at John.
“She talks a good deal,” quoth he tentatively.
“I have,” returned John, “conceived a great affection for Mrs.
Trimwell. Her ideas are original. She has, also, a distinct prejudice
in favour of speaking her mind with a candour and verve which I find
undeniably refreshing. Yes; certainly I have conceived an affection for
her.”
Corin snorted.
“Every man to his own taste,” said he. “For my part I find her
over-fluent of speech.”
“That,” replied John, “arises merely from a tendency I have frequently
noted in you to monopolize the whole conversation; to mop it, so to
speak, into your own sponge, thereby leaving the sponges of others bone
dry.”
“I have never,” retorted Corin, “observed that your sponge lacked
moisture, if you will use terms of parable instead of straightforward
words. But to leave Mrs. Trimwell for the moment. How did you enjoy
the morning? Did I expand one whit too freely on the glories of the
surrounding country? Is there not colour,--radiant, vital colour at
every turn?”
“I’ll allow there’s sufficient beauty hereabouts,” conceded John.
“And you had a pleasant time? Own to the truth. It was worth while
sacrificing sun-baked streets for wide stretches of glorious moorland?”
“Oh, I’ll own to the worth whileness of it,” laughed John, hugging a
delicious secret to his heart.
Corin shrugged his shoulders.
“You might be a trifle more expansive,” he grumbled. “You might give
me an epitome of your morning’s experiences. There was I, perched
like a hen on a henroost, slaving my life out for four hours, while
you were enjoying glorious freedom. I said to myself, he’ll return
enthusiastic. I’ll have, at least, a second-hand experience of purple
moorland, sun-kissed sea, and cool green woods. And all the man has
done is to smile oracularly, and admit to beauty when the admission
was fairly dragged from his lips. No; don’t begin to rhapsodize now.
It’s too late. I wanted spontaneity, a first fine careless rapture. And
by dragging, pulling, and tugging, I get a bare admission of beauty
grudgingly made.”
John laughed again. It must be confessed that he was in a peculiarly
lighthearted mood.
“I’ll attempt no rhapsody, no poetic flights of fancy, since the
psychological moment for so doing has, according to you, passed. I’ll
give you the mere salient facts of the morning, the chiefest being that
I played St. George to the dragon.”
Corin eyed him suspiciously.
“I have an idea I heard you remark ‘no poetic flights of fancy,’ a
moment agone,” he suggested.
“I did,” retorted John, “and I adhere to that remark. Here is fact
pure and simple. But, for your better convincing, I will state that
the dragon had for the moment disguised itself as a goat,--a large, a
playful, black and white goat. The disguise was good, I’ll allow, but,”
concluded John dramatically, “I penetrated it.”
Corin sighed.
“If you could divest your speech of symbolism,” said he pathetically,
“and give me facts in plain English.”
“No symbolism I assure you,” protested John. “It was a goat,--a black
and white goat. It curved, it gavotted, it gambolled, thereby causing
much distress to a fair lady and her two attendant knights, who were,
believe me, hardly of an age to deal convincingly with either goats or
dragons. Then, behold, enter St. George.” He struck himself upon the
chest.
“Oh!” Corin began to find a thread of reasonableness among the
nonsense. “Who was the lady, I wonder?”
“She told me,” said John, “that her name was Miss Rosamund Delancey.”
He experienced a strange sensation of pleasure in pronouncing the words.
“Oh!” said Corin a second time. “From the Castle.”
“From the Castle,” echoed John.
Corin reflected, mused. Finally, seeing that John had come to an end of
the repast, he pushed back his chair, rose from the table, and lighted
a cigarette.
“I have heard a rumour,” said he, the cigarette lighted, “that they
are shortly leaving the Castle on account of some claimant who has
turned up. I can’t remember the whole story. I know it struck me as
sufficiently melodramatic at the moment,--murders, missing documents,
and little Adelphi touches of that kind were mixed up in it. But I
daresay it’s nothing but a rumour.”
“Let us trust so,” said John devoutly.