"I know, I know," he
said. "It's very rum--you must naturally find it so. I know exactly how
you feel about it. Oh, rum's the only word for it. Or rummy. Yes, you
might call it rummy--or a go, you know--or anything like that." Then he
grew plausible. "But I'm sure it's all right. It's a long story, but I'm
quite sure. You've no idea what a fine girl that is. Ah, but I know it."
He tapped his forehead. "I saw the whole thing through--from beginning to
end. She's a perfect beauty, to begin with."
That was a bad note. Mrs. Devereux asked him at once if he thought that a
good reason. "Well," he said, "I do, you know--in a way. I can't explain
it--but I think you see it in her face, you know--and manner. Yes, in her
manner. She's uncommon, you see, most uncommon. And as cool as--well, it
would be hard to say how cool a hand I thought her." He paused, having got
off this effective estimate, round-eyed and triumphant.
"It seems to me, Mr. Chevenix," said the dry lady, "that the less you say
the better."
"Not at all, Mrs. Devereux, not at all." He was eager to explain. "I don't
think you quite follow me. What I meant to say was, that when a young
woman can be as cool as she can be; can run a big place like this, and
manage a staff of servants,--outdoors, mind you, and in; no steward, only
a bailiff; keep all the accounts; and hold her head up--for she does that,
you know, uncommonly well; why, then I say that she must be allowed the
benefit of the doubt, you know.
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